


A Stop at Willoughby

by danceswithgary



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Humor, Implied Suicide Attempt, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-02
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-20 23:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/218117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just supposed to be a place to stop and take a breath while he figured out what to do for the rest of his life. An SG-1/SGA AU inspired by <a>Farewell to Harry</a>.</p><p><b>This is not a WIP, although it is still being updated periodically. It is written as a series of episodes - in chronological order with no nasty cliff-hangers. </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bus Stop, A Diner, and A Matinee

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for timeframe/character ages in this AU.

  
  


  


 

Three days ago, he'd walked away from his life with no particular destination in mind, just an overwhelming desire for 'anywhere that's not here' fueled by a wallet stuffed with twenties. After depositing a few items in a locker at Union Station, he'd closed his eyes and pointed at the departures board to pick the first random direction he'd be heading in. He'd bought his 'ticket to ride,' not really caring where he'd ultimately end up.

Now, the unbroken line of gray-blue water, the great lake barely visible through the rain-spotted window of the bus, is the signal to present the next set of choices to his two-sided oracle. It's only supposed to be a thirty-minute break for the driver and passengers, but it's been twelve hours since he last changed direction in his zigzag meanderings and he's tired of breathing recycled air and sitting on scratchy upholstery. Lady Liberty obviously agrees and smiles up at him and declares that Willoughby, Ohio is where she wants to take a breather. Since the silver-faced dame hasn't led him astray yet, he winks back at her, retrieves his battered duffel and black leather jacket from the overhead compartment, and starts walking.

The bus station is tucked away on a side street, so it takes a few minutes at a brisk trot in the rain-cooled air to reach Erie Road, the main street of the small town. The chilly journey is well worth it, coaxing forth a smile when he turns the corner and steps forward into the past. A lakeside suburb of Cleveland, Willoughby has somehow managed to retain an air of earlier days, brownstones and spring-clad maples softening any encroachment by harsh modern angles. Even the slightly crooked lettering on the marquee above the Rose Theatre contributes to the setting by announcing a Gary Cooper double-feature consisting of 'High Noon' and 'Springfield Rifle.'

Inexplicably drawn by the flickering lights of the vintage sign, he ambles closer, his grin widening at the sight of the sepia-colored posters propped up in the glass-fronted cases. He narrows his eyes for a moment as he contemplates the wording on a more modern addition to the display, and then he makes an arbitrary decision, not bothering to pull the dollar coin from his pocket for a consultation.

The worn brass handle of the theatre's door feels cool against his palm as he shoves his way inside, but the warm amber glow of the lobby lighting seems to murmur 'Welcome' and 'What took you so long?' After scuffing his boots dry on the shabby carpet, he ruffles back his weather-flattened hair and nods politely at the heavyset man standing just inside the ticket kiosk. Straightening a little from his habitual slouch, he consciously summons a little of the charm that he's often been accused of throwing around carelessly and politely introduces himself.

"Good afternoon. Name's John Sheppard. About that job you have posted out front...."

~.~.~.~.~

"So what can I get you this morning, sweetie?"

John looks up from the plastic-sealed menu in his hand and blinks sleepily at the gray-haired waitress standing patiently on the other side of the counter. The nametag pinned neatly on the lapel of her salmon-pink uniform greets him with a cheerful 'Hello, my name is Daisy,' and he smiles as he points at the steaming carafe she holds poised over a white china mug. "As long as that's not decaf, that's a good place to start, ma'am."

With a raspy chuckle, she fills the mug and nudges it toward him. "Sure is. Not many people walk into the Sunrise looking for decaf. Cream? Sugar?" She turns away as she asks, placing the carafe back on the warmer before rummaging under the counter for a napkin-wrapped place setting, her movements efficient from years of dealing with early mornings and drowsy patrons.

"Hot and black is fine. Thanks." Swapping menu for mug, John blows across the dark liquid before venturing a sip, his eyes lighting up in appreciation as he swallows and then acknowledges, "It's great." Dropping his eyes to the abandoned menu, he scans it again, then taps lightly on his selection. "Two egg special, over-easy, bacon, whole wheat."

"Coming right up." Snagging the carafe of coffee, the waitress bustles away to call out his order through the swinging door at the far end of the counter before emerging into the aisle to cheerfully offer refills at the few occupied booths. In her absence, John swivels on his stool to survey the rest of the diner, absorbing the sight of pitted chrome, cracked red leather, faded linoleum, and the fluorescent lights that wash out complexions and food alike. Despite the worn edges, the place is clean and bright, welcoming customers inside with the smells of coffee and fried food, along with a hint of burnt toast and sweet jam mixed with pine.

Filled with the sudden need to capture the moment, John fumbles a leather-bound book from the jacket draped over the stool next to him, swings back around to the counter, and reaches for one of the pens sticking out of a nearby mug. He flattens the book open, flipping past filled pages until he locates a blank, and begins scribbling in sharp-pointed cursive, black letters cramping along faint blue guidelines. Words appear in fits and starts, the cheap pen scraping along the second day of stubble while awaiting inspiration, until a white china plate slides into view.

"Two over-easy, bacon, and whole wheat. Jam and honey's in the dish there. More coffee?"

Jotting a few last words, John glances up with an absent-minded smile. "Yeah, thanks." A fork replaces the pen, the book closed and shoved to one side, a paper napkin marking his place. "Looks great." A hum of satisfaction on the first mouthful of egg confirms his opinion. "Perfect. Just the way I like them."

"George'll be glad to hear that, sweetie." Keeping herself busy behind the counter, she refills a few sugar containers, her faded blue eyes twinkling at John's evident enjoyment of the rapidly disappearing food. "You in town for a while, or are you just passing through?"

Using his toast to swipe up the last of the runny yolks, John shrugs. "Haven't decided yet how long I'm going to stay. Need to see how things go." He washes his last bite down with his coffee and winks at her. "However, I do know where I'll be having breakfast while I'm here, ma'am."

A mock frown deepening the age-soft creases in her face, she props work-reddened knuckles on ample hips and huffs, "Ma'am, again? Well, aren't you the polite one." She taps her nametag and flashes a reproving smile. "It's Daisy...especially to the pretty ones."

Ducking his head in mild embarrassment, John reaches for his book, clearing his throat before drawling, "Then I guess you should call me John." His head rises and he grins shyly, feeling spots of bright heat high on his cheekbones as he stands and offers his hand. "John Sheppard."

A quick clasp and then Daisy writes up his check, sliding it across the counter with an indulgent smile. "Nice to meet you, John Sheppard. Maybe next time you can tell me what you were so busy scribbling down in there." She inclines her head in curiosity toward the book John's stowing away in a pocket.

Shrugging into the jacket, John shakes his head, widens his eyes in mock innocence. "Nothing much there. Just a few notes." Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he pulls out a well-worn wallet and extracts a slightly crumpled five, tucking it under a curled edge of the check. "Keep the change."

"Thanks, sweetie." Both pieces of paper vanish inside a pocket of her apron before she begins to tidy away the empty plate and mug. "You have a nice day now, John." Counter cleared, she's off and running with the carafe again, her attention on her remaining customers.

The bell over the door chimes merrily as John pushes through, the cool spring air raising a shiver as well as his collar. Glancing in both directions, he frowns for a moment in indecision before murmuring, "Hunh. So that's Lake Erie." Tucking his hands inside his pockets, he heads north toward the gray sheen of water that had called to him yesterday, detouring around puddles and pausing to peer into various storefronts along the way.

~.~.~.~.~

"Center it, clip that on, lock this, slide...slide...damn it...slide...." Still muttering under his breath, John leans over to check the positioning of the second reel in the dim light of the projection booth, his eyes narrowed in frustration. "What the hell is wrong with this thing?" He straightens up and turns toward the instructions tacked to the wall, his lips moving silently as he reads through them, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure what he's missed. A eureka moment, "Oh!" and he's back at the ancient machine to try again. "Come on, John. You've done this at least a dozen times already. Flip _that_ first, then slide...slide.... Now what?" A metal part pings free and skitters across the wooden floor and he throws his hands up in aggravation, knocking against an edge of the reel and sending it bouncing across the floor, film unspooling along the way. "Fuck!"

The delay hasn't gone unnoticed in the sparsely populated theatre. One exasperated voice shouts up to the projection slot, "Richie, you cheap bastard! Haven't you replaced that outdated piece of crap yet?"

Stepping forward to peer out in vain at the darkened room below, John calls back to the invisible critic, "Uh, I'm not Richie and I guess the answer to that question would be 'No, he hasn't replaced this outdated piece of crap.' Listen, I'm sorry. I'll get the movie started back up as soon as I can."

He drops to his hands and knees to search for the errant piece, sweeping his palm across the dusty floor wherever shadows create hiding places. A few thudding steps are John's only warning before the door of the booth crashes open. He freezes and looks up warily, prepared to jump to his feet in defense of the 'piece of crap' if required. That action results in blinking and watery eyes when the main overhead light suddenly snaps on.

A whirlwind of plaid, denim, light brown hair, and very blue eyes blows into the room and begins poking at the annoying piece of machinery, muttering, "You'd think the cheap bastard would have upgraded in the last fifteen years." A crooked grin slanted in John's direction appears unexpectedly gleeful, the voice holding only a faint tinge of exasperation. "Well, what broke off this time?"

Fortunately for John, he feels a sharp slice of metal under his fingertips before he's forced to answer the stranger with something stupid like "hunh?" and blowing any chance he has of looking as if he knows what he's doing. Standing up, he holds his find up to the light and squints at it. "I'm not really sure, but I think this is it. It snapped off when I was changing the reel."

"Hand it over." The command is abrupt, accompanied by snapping fingers. John decides to take a chance and do just that and is rewarded with another task. "Yeah, that looks familiar. Okay, you'd better start rewinding the reel while I get this thing put back together." John doesn't move, his attention fixed on the quick, sure movements of the other man, who's pushing buttons and toggling switches and huffing in disgust. A small jackknife is opened to a screwdriver before he looks up and notices John's failure to obey. He frowns and barks impatiently, "Well? Are you going to make me do everything myself?"

"Uh, no. I've got it." John performs as directed and guides the film back on the metal reel, using a soft cloth to wipe off any dust it had picked up while on the floor. By the time he finishes, his unexpected assistant is holding out a hand for it, ready to pop the reel back on the projector. He does so, then waves John closer and points at what he repaired. "Okay, here's where the problem is. Every now and then, there's too much pressure exerted on this piece and that ends up torqueing that one next to it and then you're chasing parts across the floor. You just need to treat it gently and it'll behave."

Now that it's been explained, John can see what the other man is talking about and knows what to avoid in the future. He nods and runs through the loading sequence and the film starts playing again without any more problems. With a sigh of relief, he turns to thank his savior, but he's already halfway out the door, snapping the overhead light off behind him. Oddly disappointed at being abandoned, John calls out, "Hey, thanks!"

A truncated reply floats back into the room as the door swings closed. "...needed to find out whether the Martians...." The eerie sound of alien lasers fills in the blanks and John steps over to the slot in time to watch the customer return to his seat off to the side. John can't quite make out the man's features in the dim light of the exit sign, but he can see the flicker of his hands dancing through the scenes and John suspects that he's talking along with the gestures. The suspicion is borne out when he hears another customer hissing "quiet" across the rows, the irritation audible as far away as the booth.

John smiles down at the aggravating man and declines to transform into his alter ego of theatre cop, otherwise known as usher. The other customers will just have to put up with the impromptu narration.

This time.

~.~.~.~.~

When the owner had informed John that he couldn't cook in the studio apartment located above the theatre, he'd grudgingly allowed that a microwave and mini-fridge were acceptable. John appreciates that concession when he doesn't feel like walking four or five long blocks to one of the local restaurants or fast food places. In his free time, he can indulge in a bowl of cereal or make a sandwich and relax on the futon to read one of the books borrowed from the library on Euclid Street. He's also discovered that, when he's scribbling at the tiny desk and leans his head against the window, he can just make out a sliver of the lake at the end of the street.

There isn't much else to do in the 12' by 16' space when John's awake. Converted from office space, the room is furnished with a do-it-yourself pressboard dresser, as well as the desk and futon, all as mismatched as the curtains and linens plucked from bargain bins. The floor space virtually disappears when the futon is pulled out but, if he's honest with himself, he's lived in tighter quarters for longer periods. On a positive note, the bathroom down the hall has plenty of hot water to make up for the tight squeeze in the shower stall and the room.

In all, John figures the studio is worth the rent, an easy four to six hours a day as janitor and projectionist, Tuesday through Saturday. Richie, the 'cheap bastard,' also hands over another sixty in cash every week, happy he has someone willing to save him the hassle of taxes and insurance. In turn, John appreciates how easy it will be to wake up one morning, hop on another bus, and keep going until Lady Liberty says 'here.' After all, stopping at Willoughby was just supposed to give him a chance to catch his breath, a little time to think in uncomplicated peace and quiet.

It's also surprisingly easy to sleep as late as he likes after years of rising at dawn. At times, John feels twitchy waking up at 0900, despite the fact that he worked until 2300 the night before and then read until 0200. A run usually takes care of the twitching, especially when followed by coffee and breakfast at the Sunrise, served up hot and fresh along with Daisy's cheerful teasing.

Thinking about what he might have for breakfast, John finishes up his six or so miles and heads for the pier at the end of Erie Road, his favorite place to cool down and stretch. His muscles feel warm and loose under sweats faded to a color lighter than the occasional pile of grimy snow he passes, his breathing easy and regular against the strong breeze off the lake. As he approaches his goal, he notices a man in a dark suit disregarding the warning signs and beginning to climb over the railing at the end, right where John knows the water is deep and dark. John speeds up again, skids around the cement posts at the entrance, and races down the weather-aged wooden planks, his feet thudding in time with his heart.

"Whoa! Hang on there, buddy!" John grabs the man's arm and hauls backward, steadying him when his foot catches on the railing and sends them both stumbling. "Still a little early in the year to go swimming, isn't it?" He wrestles his catch around until he can see the other man's face to gauge whether additional assistance is required. There's plenty of distress evident in the dark, bloodshot eyes, but no visible anger, so John relaxes a little and asks quietly, "You okay now?"

"Would have been better in the water." A frown creases soft cocoa skin, the lines pulling counter to others that appear more accustomed to the task of smiling. As he sway in John's grasp, slow blinks reveal weary-looking eyes, tinged with yellow at the corners. Fortunately, he's rail-thin beneath his wool suit, so John's able to keep him upright without too much difficulty. After a moment, he straightens and, from his two-inch advantage in height, manages to look down at John. He nods abruptly and slurs politely, "Thanks for all your help," waving one hand in the direction of a sharp-finned Cadillac parked creatively at the entrance of the pier." I'll just be going now."

John presses his lips tight and angles his face away from sharp-sour breath before he shakes his head in disagreement, a hint of exasperation seeping into his voice. "No, I don't think that's such a good idea." Releasing him, John gives in to an impulse to smooth out the few wrinkles he'd added to the pinstriped jacket. Using a soft palm, John pats him down, extracts a set of keys from one pocket, and holds them hostage when a dark-skinned hand grabs for them and misses. "Not happening, buddy. It's a little early in the day for drinking, isn't it?"

A shake of his head and a sigh indicate the man's disagreement with John's observation. "Some days, it's a little late." Shuffling a few steps to the side and bending slowly, he picks up a previously unnoticed fedora and dusts it off carefully before placing it on his head at a jaunty angle. "Today, it seemed like the thing to do."

Uncomfortable with the situation, John shivers in the cool breeze, feeling the sweat of his earlier exertion chill against his body. Looking down the street, he decides any further discussion should take place somewhere warmer, delaying the hot shower he'd been looking forward to, knowing he'll be paying the price of not cooling down properly with stiff muscles for the rest of the day. Unable to simply walk away, John steps a little closer and introduces himself with a tilt of his head and a smile. "John Sheppard. Listen, I could sure use a cup of coffee. Join me?"

John's hand is accepted, the sad brown eyes brighten a little at the invitation, and the smile that most likely formed the deep creases at the corners of those eyes makes its appearance. "Pleased to meet you, John. Harry Dunham." Releasing John's hand after a gentle squeeze, Harry nods in satisfaction and accepts. "Coffee sounds good, especially if it's Daisy's."

"Well, Harry, then the Sunrise it is." Harry takes the lead, with John hovering at his elbow in case a wavering stride goes amiss, and they slowly make their way up Erie Road together, heading for the flickering neon sun sign promising hot coffee and Daisy's smile.

~.~.~.~.~

They're barely through the door of the diner when Harry calls out, "Mac!" and makes a beeline for a booth by the window. John follows close enough to steer Harry when he veers a little too far to one side and they make it to their seats without endangering any of the other patrons. The man already sitting there seems vaguely familiar, but it isn't until he looks up and his blue eyes and crooked mouth are visible that John recalls where they'd met before.

Removing his hat, Harry hangs it on a nearby coat rack, slides into the seat opposite the previously anonymous repairman, and then waves at Daisy behind the counter. John fidgets from one foot to the other before blurting, "Well, it looks like you're settled in okay so I'll just...." He gestures toward the door and turns to leave but, without warning, slightly gnarled fingers close on his wrist and he's yanked inside the booth to sit next to Harry.

Harry releases John's wrist to pat him on the shoulder in an oddly proprietary manner as he slurs an introduction. "Mac, this is my new friend, John...."

Although he's feeling a little uncomfortable at the circumstances, John doesn't miss his cue and fills in the blank. "Sheppard." He offers a hand across the table, which is readily accepted, although it's accompanied by a hint of amusement crinkling the corners of Mac's eyes.

"I'm D...."

"What can I get you boys this morning?" Daisy interrupts the exchange of names by plopping down two mugs and filling them as she asks for their orders. She also refills Mac's mug without asking, and then picks up a plate cleared of everything but a few smears of yolk and some crumbs. "Need more time to decide?"

Mac's eyes narrow as he waits for Harry to order and, when Harry just sits there in a daze, he frowns and orders for him. "Why don't you bring Harry some waffles, Daisy? And keep the coffee coming."

Daisy nods, concern written across her face as she watches Harry swaying in his seat. "Coming right up, Mac. You want anything else? John, how about you?"

Mac shakes his head, never taking his eyes off Harry. "I'm set. Thanks."

"Waffles sound fine. I'll take a side of bacon with that and orange juice, please." Fascinated by the silent communication that's taking place at the table, John is puzzled when all three twitch at his order. He catches a look passing between Mac and Daisy, followed by a shrug from Mac, and John's curiosity is definitely aroused. He asks, "Something wrong?" which results in another set of twitches.

"It so happens that I'm deathly allergic to citrus," Mac finally explains with a rueful smile. "I reminded Daisy one too many times this morning. She knows she needs to be careful."

Rolling her eyes in fond irritation, Daisy waves the nearly empty carafe in dismissal and starts to walk away, but stops when John calls out, "Ah, Daisy? Make that cranberry, instead." She half-turns and bestows an approving nod, and John feels a flush of warmth when he sees the matching sentiment in Mac's eyes.

The silence that falls is only a little uncomfortable; a pleasant surprise considering John's only just met the other two men. Glancing to the side to check on Harry, John notices Harry's coffee mug has his name printed on it along with a drawing of a hat in permanent marker, while John's is plain white. When Mac catches John trying to unobtrusively check out his mug, he smiles and turns it around to display a 'Mac' with a star and what looks like a screwdriver.

Mac takes pity on John and saves him the need to ask. "Stick around the Sunrise long enough and you'll end up with one of your own. Daisy tends to collect people," He jerks a thumb toward a standing rack in the corner behind the counter that John hadn't noticed on his previous visits.

John taps the picture of the tool and ventures a guess. "So I take it that you're some sort of super mechanic? Sort of a 'MacGyver,' able to fix ancient projectors and build bombs from odd bits and pieces?"

"Harry labeled me 'Mac' years before that show encouraged the world to expect impossible solutions to ridiculous scenarios with inadequate tools from overworked and under-appreciated engineers and physicists." The food arrives in the middle of Mac's explanation and he politely waits for Daisy to finish setting down the waffle-laden plates before he addresses her. "I changed my mind, Daisy. Can I get a blueberry muffin? Thanks."

Hungry after his run, John grabs a piece of bacon immediately, but after a few bites he finds himself intrigued at how matter-of-factly Mac hands Harry the maple syrup, gently nudging Harry's plate to remind him to eat. "Come on, Harry. You could use the food." Looking back at John, Mac shakes his head and finishes explaining while John douses his own waffles with liquid amber. "It's really just short for McKay...Dr. Rodney McKay. Everyone outside of Willoughby usually calls me Rodney."

Harry looks up from poking gingerly at the ragged squares he's managed to cut. "Hey. Mac's a whole lot better than Merry."

John lets loose a bark of startled laughter. "Mary? Of course there's a boy named Sue...."

Daisy hands over Mac's muffin and joins in the laughter as Mac frowns and huffs in exasperation. "Not M-A-R-Y, M-E-R-R-Y. Like the hobbit...and I should have just said it was a family thing and my aunt was eccentric and left it at that. It's Rodney, McKay, or Mac. I'll answer to any of those."

"I guess then...Mac?" John shrugs, hoping for a hint as to the other man's preference. "When in Willoughby...."

Mac studies John for a moment before nodding, his smile reassuring John about his choice. "Mac's fine. And you? If you hang around Harry for any length of time, he'll pick out something if you don't speak up. So, John, Johnny...."

Harry, who's been silently rearranging his breakfast on his plate without really eating much of it, chimes in with, "Shep!"

Mac shakes his head and laughs into his coffee mug. "I warned you."

Harry's glee at naming him is more than John can resist, despite the twinge of sadness at hearing his old call sign for the first time in almost a year. "Sure, Shep's fine, although I prefer John or Sheppard." He points to Harry's mug, still curious about the drawings. "A hat. Because you wear one all the time?"

Giving up on his well-shredded waffles, Harry shoves his plate to the center of the table, shaking his head at John's guess. "It's my business."

John slides his empty plate underneath Harry's to make it easier for Daisy when she returns, his mind turning over the bit of information until he recalls an old brick building he's passed several times on his morning runs. "Dunham Hats?" Harry nods, but doesn't seem inclined to share anything else, his attention on the dregs of coffee in his mug. John looks across at Mac and sees his concern over the older man's condition is shared, so he tries again. "Okay, so your mug makes sense, but Mac's is still a mystery. Shouldn't a doctor have a stethoscope or something?"

Mac smiles in what might be gratitude when he sees Harry perk up at John's question. "Daisy actually did a pretty good job coming up with something to represent an astrophysicist with a couple of engineering degrees, even though it makes it look as though I repair stars instead of studying them."

John and Mac both startle when Harry suddenly slaps the table and crows, "Doc Mac!"

"Oh no. Let's just stick to Mac. I'd like to avoid sounding as if I'll be presenting my latest invention on a late-night infomercial." Mac steers the conversation away from naming disasters by focusing his attention on Harry. "So what's the deal here, Harry? You usually wait until at least five o'clock before you break out the hard stuff."

Harry doesn't answer right away and Mac's question reminds John why he'd accompanied Mac to the diner in the first place. Since it appears as if Mac is taking over responsibility for his friend, John reaches into his pocket, pulls out the set of keys, and slides them across the table toward Mac. "Harry's. He...uh...he was thinking about going swimming in the lake. His car's still down at the pier."

Mac picks up the keys and weighs them in his hand before tucking them into his shirt pocket. He frowns across the table at Harry, his tone a little harsher as he asks, "A little early in the year, isn't it, Harry? Having a bad day?"

Harry nods his head slowly, and John watches the creases in his dark face sink a little deeper under the pain he can hear in Harry's voice. "Been a lot of bad days lately. I miss her, Mac."

"Oh." Mac's response is quiet, his face softening in sympathy. "I know, Harry."

John begins to feel uncomfortable. The two men seem to have forgotten that he's sitting there and can hear the highly personal exchange. The feeling increases with the hint of accusation from Harry. "She missed _you_ , all those summers you were gone."

The hint is enough to leave Mac wincing as he nods in understanding. "I...yeah. I wish...." He looks out the window as if searching for a solution, then snaps his fingers and exclaims, "Tell you what we're going to do, Harry. I haven't..." A waving hand fills in the blank, but John's not sure with what. "...we'll pick up some flowers at Fraser's and take them out to her. Visit for a while."

"I should be going," John begins, only to be interrupted by Daisy offering more coffee. "No, thanks, Daisy. The check?"

"Hey, no. I've got it." Mac holds out his hand for the check Daisy's scribbling, smiling away John's attempt to insist on paying for his own breakfast, if not for theirs. "The least I can do. Harry, he's...." Mac shakes his head as he fails to find the right words, then he stands, pulls out his wallet, and drops a twenty on the table.

John gets to his feet at the same time and offers a handshake to the other men. "Thanks. Hope to see you around some time."

"You too, John." The sincerity in Mac's voice is unmistakable and is echoed in his clear blue eyes.

Bidding Daisy a cheerful goodbye, the three men head for the door together and separate on the sidewalk outside. For a few moments, John watches the other two walking away, Mac's hands waving as he talks to Harry, who's looking a great deal livelier than before. John smiles at the sight and ambles away in the opposite direction, wondering when they'd meet again and mildly surprised at how much he was looking forward to it.

~.~.~.~.~

The next time they meet happens to be two days later.

John's in a cranky mood about the snow that fell overnight. It's the first week in April, it's supposed to be spring, and he's cold. It's especially annoying when he recalls that back east in a much more clement Washington D.C. they're currently celebrating the cherry blossoms. He feels a little sympathy for the daffodils that have been valiantly trying to grow tall enough to bloom, now bending under the heavy wet snow that's dragging at his feet, and he cuts his run short and spends an extra ten minutes in the shower trying to warm up. Back in his room, he searches through his limited choices for seasonal clothing and locates a hooded sweatshirt and faded jeans still clean enough to wear, although he makes a mental note that the need to visit the local fluff-and-fold is approaching urgent.

Temporarily thawed, he checks the milk in his mini-fridge, grimaces at the sour smell that means dry cereal for breakfast, and resists the impulse to stuff everything into his duffel and head for the bus station and warmer climes. The Sunrise is closer, so he ignores his wet runners, shoves his feet into boots that need polishing, and slogs over to the diner with the collar of his leather jacket snugged tight against the cold, damp air.

The jacket ends up on the rack by the door and John stands there for a moment while he scopes out the diner for the best seat. It doesn't take him long to spot Mac sitting in the same place as the last time, personalized coffee mug at hand and surrounded by a dissected _Plain Dealer_ , a smudge of newsprint on the side of his nose. John's morning instantly improves when he grabs a pen from Daisy's mug, slides into the booth and, instead of pulling out his journal, snags the page with the sudoku board while Mac's still concentrating on the crossword puzzle.

The puzzled expression on Mac's face shifts to a smile almost instantly as he recognizes John, quickly replaced by a frown when he realizes what John has sitting in front of him. "Hey, I like to do those, too."

Relaxing into a comfortable slouch, John grins at him and casually fills in a box. "You snooze, you lose." He accepts his usual cup of coffee from Daisy and smiles up at her. "Thanks. I think a couple of eggs and bacon today. Over easy and whole wheat, and..." He glances at Mac and winks. "...apple juice."

Mac waits until Daisy refills his mug and heads back to the kitchen before he narrows his eyes at John and grumbles, "So what you're telling me is I need to finish the sudoku first."

John shrugs and fills in another box. "Then I'll just grab the crossword instead." He looks up and laughs at Mac's expression of bemused disgruntlement.

Acting as if he's a little flustered by John's attention, Mac tidies up the remaining sheets and drops them on the seat next to him. He finally looks back up at John and suggests tentatively, "Or I'll buy two papers next time and we can race?" His grin reappears when John nods in agreement and the two of them are quiet for a few minutes as they each work on their respective puzzles.

Daisy's arrival with John's breakfast coincides with the completion of the sudoku board. John thanks her again, sets the paper aside, and immediately digs into his meal with a better appetite than he's had in days. When he notices Mac watching him eat, instead of filling in the crossword, John remembers a question he'd forgotten to ask the last time they'd met. "Two doctorates. You work at one of the universities?"

"Me teaching the unwashed and illiterate?" Mac huffs and shakes his head. "That would be a match made in hell. No, I...I work for the government. Not around here. In Nevada."

John looks out at the gray morning and shakes his head in bewilderment. "Nevada. Why aren't you there now, where it's warm and dry?"

"Believe me, Willoughby's a tropical paradise compared to where I almost ended up." Mac leans back and crosses his arms, frowning. "I...uh...I needed a break, needed to work out a few things in my head. I had a lot of time accrued, actually _months_ of vacation and personal leave, since I'd never used any of it before."

"They keep you pretty busy?" Finished with his eggs, John crunches on a strip of bacon and absently spreads grape jelly across his toast, finding himself more interested in the other man than the remainder of his breakfast.

Mac's chin rises, his eyes bright with pride. "Well, I am the foremost..." The chin lowers as he suddenly edits himself. "...uh...yeah, pretty busy." He stares out the window for a moment, as if searching for the lost thread of conversation. Relaxing his arms, he reaches out for his coffee, takes a few sips before providing details. "When my aunt died this past December, just before Christmas, I was...unavailable. I found out too late to make it here for the funeral or the reading of the will, but it turned out that she'd split everything between me and my sister Jeannie, including her house on the lake."

Mac scrubs a hand across his face, adding another streak of gray and illustrating how the first smudge occurred. "Sitting around my apartment was driving me crazy, so I decided to come up here and get the place ready to sell, when and if Jeannie ever agrees to that happening." The hand that had been illustrating Mac's explanation swoops across the table to snatch the last slice of John's bacon. "Besides, I wanted to see if the town was anything like I remembered."

Although he's not really hungry anymore, John scowls at the blatant theft, but then shrugs it off as fair payment for the entertainment. "So, is it?"

"Well, it has changed a bit." Mac smiles in satisfaction and the pilfered bacon disappears in two bites washed down with coffee, the food barely slowing down his chatter. "After all, it's been fifteen years or so. There's still a lot here that stayed pretty much the same. My aunt's house, the Sunrise...and Daisy, the Rose, and Harry, of course. Willoughby's one of those places that hangs on to the past, tends to encourage things to stay the way they've always been. The Rose is a good example. Richie gets tax incentives and a grant from the historical society to keep the place open through the winter. The town council wants to make sure the summer people have someplace local for entertainment, some competition for the bright lights of the city."

When John's fairly certain that Mac's run down for the moment, he comments, "Hunh. That's actually kind of cool." He waits, but Mac doesn't ask any questions of his own, although John detects their presence behind his curiosity-brightened eyes. John almost volunteers the reason he's in town, but settles for leaning forward and pointing to the crossword puzzle instead. "12 across is M-A-G-A-Z-I-N-E."

"What?" Grabbing his pen, Mac taps out the solution, sputtering, "You did that reading upside down? Totally unfair!"

John grins across the table and teases, "Do you want to know what 20 down is?"

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

"Could've been in Mensa." John laughs when Mac frowns at him and curves his arm around to conceal the puzzle from any further attempts at kibitzing. He settles back in his seat to drink his coffee and watch Daisy zoom from counter to tables, soaking in the warmth and cheer of the diner.

A few minutes later, Mac finishes the puzzle with a triumphant "Ha!" and folds up the paper. His blue laser focus returns to John and he asks without any preamble, "So. Mensa. Tell me. If Daisy decorated a mug for John Sheppard, what would it have on it? Despite your current employment, I doubt it would be a film projector."

With no stock answer prepared in advance, John shrugs and admits, "Other than my name? I...uh...I guess I'm trying to figure that out myself. Sort of why I ended up walking off the bus in Willoughby. The best I can do right now is that I like...uh...Ferris wheels and college football and...anything that goes more than two hundred miles per hour."

Before Mac can ask another question, the bell over the door announces the first of the lunchtime crowd. Mac frowns down at his watch and looks up at John with a calculating eye. John doesn't say a word, just waits for whatever Mac wants to say, already clued in on the fact that Mac doesn't hold much back. "I'm supposed to meet Harry to look over some machinery that he might be selling. You...uh...you don't look like you're very busy, so you're welcome to tag along, maybe get a tour of the place."

The offhand invitation surprises John, but he doesn't need to think it over for very long. Mac is right. All John has waiting for him is running a load of laundry or reading a book in a small room with a noisy space heater. He stands and pulls out his wallet to pay his check, nodding in acceptance. "Sure. Sounds like a plan."

"Great." Mac jumps to his feet and copies John's movements, leaving the newspaper behind for Daisy to clear away. He rubs his hands in satisfaction, and then grabs his mug to drain the last of his coffee.

"Hey, wait a second." John grabs a handful of paper napkins from the table dispenser and hands them to Mac, who looks at John as if he's grown a second head. "Here. You...uh...have some...." John taps the side of his nose and his cheek, trying to indicate where Mac has smeared the newsprint.

"You've got to be kidding!" Mac licks a napkin, wrinkling his nose at the taste, and scrubs at his face. "I've been sitting there all that time looking like a grubby kid off the street...and you didn't tell me?" He tosses the napkins down and grabs his mug again, determined not to miss a drop.

John laughs at Mac's grumbling. "What can I say? I thought it was kind of cute. I kept waiting for you to hold your coffee mug up to Daisy, bat your eyelashes at her, and whimper, 'Please ma'am, may I have some more?'"

The dregs of Mac's coffee produce a spectacular spit take.

Snorting in laughter, John only awards it a 7.5, insisting it was the Russian judges' fault the score wasn't higher, and then he shrugs on his jacket at the door to follow a still-sputtering Mac outside.

 

  



	2. Ghost Story

Mac insists that they drive to the factory and John's still feeling the cold enough to cut short his attempt to argue in favor of walking. The trip in Mac's late model BMW is all of five minutes long, but that's only because Mac doesn't make the light at the corner. John calculates walking to the car, getting in, driving, parking and then getting out again took longer than the walk would have, but decides discretion was the better part of not listening to Mac's complaints.

Up close, the factory's descent into ruin is much more apparent than John had discerned while running past on the opposite side of the street. The concrete parking lot is crumbling with green wisps sprouting through the cracks, and the white name painted on the red brick building isn't faring much better. They walk past Harry's silver-colored land yacht on the way inside, and John notes that the faded elegance of the Cadillac fits right in.

The side door by the loading dock isn't locked, and Mac stomps inside leaving the slush from his boots behind as future puddles. John follows, only jumping a little when Mac suddenly throws his head back to yell, "Harry! Where are you?" He turns his head and chuckles a bit at John's reaction before apologizing. "Sorry, bad habit. The place is huge and sometimes Harry gets a little lost in the back rooms."

John looks ahead down the dimly lit hallway and nods in understanding. "Place like this must have some great hiding spots."

"You could say that." Mac leads John past shadowed rooms filled with the skeletons of broken crates and peddle-driven sewing machines, tall racks, and round boxes. Down to the end and around the last corner and they're in a large open room, the thin gray light from the tall windows barely illuminating eerie cloth-covered shapes sprouting haphazardly from the scarred wooden floor. "The kids around here used to swear the place was haunted. You know, flickering lights passing by the windows in the middle of the night, spooky noises...the usual."

John looks around the classic horror movie setup, one eyebrow raised as he asks mockingly, "Used to?"

Heading for the staircase on the interior wall, Mac waves a dismissive hand. "Until I debunked the whole thing. Even at the tender age of eight, I wasn't prepared to accept the existence of ghosts without conclusive scientific evidence. The other kids weren't convinced and dared me to climb in through a window and bring back a hat as proof."

John spirals slowly across the floor behind Mac, fascinated by the odd fixtures scattered across the walls. "So you walked in here carrying an unlicensed nuclear accelerator on your back?"

Six steps higher, a snort of laughter answers John's flippant question. "Yeah, I was busting ghosts almost a decade before the rest of the world was introduced to Dr. Peter Venkman."

As amusing as the talk of ghosts is, the deep voice from the second floor still makes John flinch a little. "Mac? That you?"

"Hey, Harry. I brought John along for a tour." Mac bounces up the last few steps to greet a brown-suited Harry, who'd been peering over the banister to see who was invading his dusty domain. "I was explaining to him how I walked in here looking for a ghost...and found my Aunt Lily's best friend instead."

Harry shakes his head and laughs along with Mac. "That's right. Sure sent those kids running that night, didn't we?" He offers a hand and a smile to John. "Good to see you again, John."

Leading the way down another dark hallway, Mac calls back, "Your inability to play anything approximating music on that saxophone did come in handy. They were certain I was getting slaughtered in here." Entering an office cast in faded gold by the amber glass in the high-arched window, Mac plops into the closest chair with a huff. "You know, now that I've had time to think about it, I'm a little disturbed by the fact that they just left me to my horrible fate and never even called the police."

Harry waves John over to the other visitor's chair before taking his own place behind a massive wooden desk. "Now, don't go thinking that they didn't care, Mac. They most likely did, but it was a case of the boys crying 'Wolf!' too many times. The sheriff visited here more than once because folks were swearing I was some kind of spirit." There's the grating sound of a drawer sliding open and Harry reaches down to pull out a bottle and sets it down gently on the blotter in front of him. "Truth be told, the only spirits to be found around here are 90 proof." Three shot glasses are set down beside it before the drawer grates shut.

"You're kidding! You still have some of that rotgut left?" Mac reaches out to grab the unlabeled bottle, unscrewing the cap to sniff the contents, wince, and then hand it back. "Yeah, same stuff. I'll never forget that smell. I'll pass."

John pulls his attention back from cataloging the sparsely furnished room and shakes his head at Harry's silent offer. Thwarted by the refusals, Harry sighs and sets the bottle aside without pouring anything for himself. He shakes his head ruefully and admits, "Still have about thirty or so cases left in one of the back rooms. Lily didn't find them all that day she came roaring in here, ready to rip my head off and stuff it down my neck because you'd decided to sample the goods. She made me open up every last bottle she could find and pour it all down the sink." The humor in Harry's smile was tempered by the hint of sadness in his eyes. "I didn't dare take another drink until you went back to school that fall."

"Fifteen years old and I was ready to star in my very own public service announcement. I definitely learned my lesson." Mac rubs his temples at the memory. "I still can't tolerate whiskey, although your grandfather's attempt to take advantage of Prohibition barely deserves to be called that."

"He was no master distiller, that's for sure. That would be why there are so many cases still sitting back there." Harry chuckles as the bottle and glasses disappear back inside the drawer. "It's drinkable. You just have to be patient. After the third shot or so, then the taste won't bother you anymore. Lily wouldn't touch it, though." His expression softens, his dark eyes focused on something outside the present. "I could tell you some stories...."

"Maybe later. Right now, I think I'd rather look at what you've got for me." Mac snaps his fingers impatiently and holds out his hand. "Well? Is there a list? Do you have some idea what your buyers are interested in and whether the equipment needs to be in working order?"

Harry brightens at the challenge, lifts the blotter in front of him, and slides out a sheet of lined yellow paper covered in blue-inked hieroglyphics. He hands it over to Mac with a fond smile. "The model numbers and asking price for working and not." The corners of his mouth droop a little when he mentions, "It's one of those living museums that Lily kept pushing me about. She was right all along. This place is never going to be making hats again. Should've sold out years ago, after the last time I went bust. Should've...." The sharp gleam in his dark expressive eyes fades, and John thinks it's as if Harry's vacated the building while still sitting there.

Beginning to question his decision to spend a little more time with Mac, instead of doing something useful like laundry, John shifts uncomfortably in his chair, the heavy currents of regret washing through the room threatening to drag him under. Mac notices the movement and he winces an apology in John's direction before rising to his feet. "Right. I'll just take this downstairs and see what's what. How about you, John? I could probably use some help with the heavier pieces."

"Sure thing." Grateful for the out, John wastes no time standing and following Mac out the door after a casual, "Catch you later, Harry."

"Anytime, John Sheppard. Anytime." Harry waves absently in their direction as they leave, and they're only halfway down the hall when John hears the distinctive scrape of a certain wooden drawer opening followed by the clink of glass.

~.~.~.~.~

A few steps beyond the base of the stairs Mac turns around and offers a semi-apology. "Listen, if you want to leave, I won't hold it against you. I know that Harry and I...well, we're what my aunt used to call 'an acquired taste' and some people...."

John can make out the shadow of past rejections behind Mac's eyes despite the dim light. When Mac's broad shoulders slump, John's uneasiness evaporates almost instantly, and he hastens to reassure him. "Hey, no problem, Mac. Really." He edges past Mac and looks around the spacious room filled with interesting clutter, then glances back and shrugs. "I kind of like it here."

Mac perks up after that and nods in agreement. "Of course! What's not to like? I pretty much had the run of the place every summer. Harry didn't mind me taking apart the machines so I could figure out what they did. He even let me make some improvements." He takes a few steps to the side and tugs a dust cover off a medium-sized lump. "The only rule was that I couldn't plug in or turn on anything unless an adult was present. I think he and my aunt were afraid they'd walk in one day and find me scattered around the place in crispy bits."

"I guess that explains the mechanical engineering." Following Mac's example, John unveils another mysterious artifact, coughing a little in the ensuing cloud of dust. "You must have been in heaven."

Busy comparing the model number with the list, Mac answers absently, "You could say that. Some of what I learned came in handy when I built a working model of atomic bomb for my grade six Science Fair exhibit." With a frown, he pulls a pen out of his pocket and then shucks his jacket, tossing it over the machine before walking over to examine John's find. He shakes his head and mutters, "Besides, it was a lot more fun than trying to keep up with a gang of Yanks who didn't want the skinny Canuck, who happened to be allergic to just about everything, hanging around and telling them how stupid they were."

John raises one eyebrow in surprise and asks, "You're Canadian?"

"Born and raised in Vancouver...well...except for the summers I spent here." Mac looks up at John and grins. "You couldn't tell?"

John shakes his head and chuckles as he exposes another odd-shaped contraption. "Never been very good with accents. Besides, it's not like you're walking around saying aboot or...or...anything else only Canadians say."

"Because all Canadians sound like the McKenzie Brothers," Mac snorts in derision. Marking a few notes on the paper, he joins John at the latest uncovered object before admitting, "Although, to be honest, I've probably spent more time in total in the U.S. than back home." He squats to peer underneath, poking gingerly at a loose flange. "Not that I'm any better at spotting accents. If I had to guess, I'd say you were from someplace south of here, but that's the best I can do."

"Virginia." John bites off his answer, oddly reluctant to introduce his own past into the conversation.

Mac frowns at the machine and sighs. "That'll take some work. So Virginia. Not extremely south then." He rises to his feet with an exasperated sound and brushes his hands off on his jeans, leaving streaks of fuzzy gray across the blue. "You know, I was wrong. I'm not going to be doing much more than a general inventory today, no heavy lifting. You're welcome to explore if you like. Harry won't mind. Or...uh...I can drive you back to...." Mac tilts his head as he studies John. "Where would I drop you off?"

John looks down and rubs the back of his neck, uncertain of Mac's reaction. "I'm...uh...staying in the apartment above the Rose."

Mac's easy acceptance makes it clear he has no issues with John's reduced circumstances. "That's new, at least since I was here last. Guess it makes it easy to get to work."

John looks up and grins, acknowledging Mac's point. "Yeah, Richie included it when we worked out my pay. It's just a studio, but that's all I really need." He busies himself taking off his jacket to make it clear that he wants to stay...and to keep his hands away from Mac's hair where a few clumps of dust have taken up residence. Under the weak sunlight filtering into the room, the fine light-brown strands appear darker, and John also notices that it subdues the bright blue of Mac's eyes. Dismissing the stray thought with a shake of his head, John tosses the jacket atop Mac's and reaches out for the increasingly crumpled paper. "Why don't I make any notes you need, maybe read off the numbers?"

The pleasure beaming from Mac's face makes John's decision to stay worthwhile, and they work side-by-side in companionable silence except for the occasional string of letters and numbers and associated commentary on the machine's condition. That changes when John bends over to examine something a little more closely and Mac tugs lightly on the chain that's slipping past the neckline of John's sweatshirt. With a startled exclamation, John jerks backward, but the dog tags have already tumbled out into Mac's hand.

With a wince of apology, Mac drops them and straightens from his awkward position stretched across something that looks as if its primary purpose was mangling pieces of unwary operators. His mouth dips on the left in dismay and his gestures are subdued as he stammers. "Sorry. I saw the...and I thought I ...uh...recognized...."

"Hey, it's okay. You just surprised me, that's all." John's tone is artificially mild as he smiles and tucks the tags back inside. "I've been wearing them for so many years I don't even remember they're on half the time."

Mac returns a crooked smile, nodding his understanding. "I've worked with the military for quite a few years. If you don't mind my asking, what branch?"

"Air Force." The past tense is difficult to force past his teeth, but John perseveres, knowing that he should be used to saying the words by now. "I...I was a pilot."

His struggle must be apparent enough that Mac doesn't prod for more information, keeping his response casual. "Air Force, huh? I've worked with more than one flyboy...and girl. There's one in particular...Major Samantha Carter...she..." Mac's mouth quickly transitions from a dreamy smile to a derisive twist of the lips. "...she's something else." After a moment, he gives himself a little shake, as if to banish a memory, and then scrubs his hands together. "Well, I think just a few more of these and I'm done for today." A few finger snaps and he declares excitedly, "A spreadsheet. That's what I need. I'll enter what we have here when I get to the house and then bring my laptop with me next time. 'Work smarter, not harder' is what I always say."

"Sounds like a plan," John agrees with a grin. "That is as long as you're not planning on building another bomb in here."

Mac waves away the suggestion. "Six hours being grilled by the CIA was enough for me. Now I save those kinds of experiments for my nice, safe, highly classified lab." He resumes his inspection with renewed vigor, rattling off a string of instructions that has John struggling to keep up.

During a lull, as Mac mutters and pokes around inside a gearbox, John feels a little bored so he asks a question that's been puzzling him for a while. "So, the name 'Merry.' What's up with that?"

Mac looks up and frowns, and John is convinced he won't be getting an answer, but then Mac surprises him by shrugging and explaining. "Uh, yeah, that. You see, I've always hated my first name, so my aunt dubbed me a brave hobbit and the detested Meredith became Merry every summer I spent here with her. We used to wander around the town and point out Tolkien look-alikes to each other." The corner of his mouth twitches as he quite seriously declares, "We discovered that there are a surprising number of dwarves living around here, but very few elves."

John ducks his head and curls his hand into a fist on his leg to prevent an instinctive movement toward his ears. His attempt at concealment is fruitless. Mac's bright eyes sweep over him before he grins and nods decisively. "Don't worry. You're not quite ethereal enough to be an elf, although I can certainly see how someone might.... No, I think you would have ended up a Ranger. You know, the dark stranger with a mysterious past."

Frowning, John opens his mouth for a rebuttal then closes it without saying a word, unable to argue with Mac's observation. After all, John has been the one reluctant to share any details about himself since they'd met.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Mac yanks the cover off another machine with a flourish...and sneezes.

  



	3. Letting Go

"So what do you end up doing up here while the movie's running? You don't stand there and watch through that little slot, do you?"

A little startled at the unexpected intrusion, John glances over his shoulder to see Mac, who's standing in the doorway of the booth with a box of popcorn in his hand. With a shrug, John returns his attention to the projector, checking the threading a final time. "No. Sometimes I read, sometimes I write." Checking his watch, he frowns and turns to Mac. "You better get down there. I'm starting it up in two minutes or so."

"Oh, I'm not here for the movie. Not really into Westerns." Ignoring John's pointed suggestion, Mac begins to wander around the small room, poking at the bits and pieces from another old projector, idly flipping through the film canisters stacked on one of the metal shelves. "I...uh...happened to be in town and thought you might like some company."

John closes the door and dims the lights in preparation before he checks his watch again, then flips the switch on the projector. As the opening music swells through the speakers in the room below, John props a hip against the wall and crosses his arms with a grin. Although he can't help feeling a little pleased that Mac had thought of him, John's not sure it's a good idea and points out, "I never asked what Richie's policy is for visitors up here."

A flip of a hand dismisses John's concerns. "I'm not a visitor. I paid to see a movie and then decided I didn't want to watch it downstairs. Besides, I could be here as a repairman as far as Richie is concerned. Didn't I take care of that problem for you that first night?"

"Yeah, I guess you did at that," John concedes with a nod. "Kind of hard to believe you can't find anything better to do than hang around this place with me."

"Actually, I brought along some entertainment." Mac reaches into the pocket of his jacket and extracts a small plastic case. On a nearby shelf that's about waist-high, he clears a space, sets down his popcorn, and unfolds the magnetic chessboard with a flourish. "I'm assuming you play?"

John detaches himself from the wall and walks over to inspect the tiny board with a laugh. "Beating you at sudoku and crosswords every morning this week wasn't enough? Now you want me to kick your ass at chess?"

"Hey, you didn't win _every_ time and, besides, you won't be able to cheat at this game quite so easily." Finished setting up the pieces, Mac snags two of the pawns, hides them behind his back for a moment, and then presents his closed fists. "Okay. Pick."

"I've told you before that I don't cheat, McKay." More than an edge of anger creeps into John's voice at the accusation that had been voiced one too many times. When Mac's grin slips and he begins to pull his hands back, John huffs impatiently and taps the left. "Well, what'd I get?"

Mac slowly opens his hand to reveal black. "Uh...you can have white if you want," he offers diffidently, a crease between his brows revealing a hint of concern at John's earlier response.

"Nah. Black's fine." Regretting his momentary loss of control, John takes a deep breath and then deliberately smirks at Mac before snatching the pawn to set it on the board. "You're going down either way." Grabbing a handful of the popcorn, he flattens his other hand on the wall next to the shelf and leans against it, his nonchalant pose a challenge.

Mac snorts at the boast and immediately advances a pawn, his strategy obviously determined before the game had even been set up. He watches avidly as John responds with his own pawn, then boldly jumps a knight forward. As he waits for John's next move, Mac ignores the popcorn in order to rearrange some of the items he shoved aside earlier. When he uncovers a familiar-looking book, he taps the cover and asks, "What do you write in this? It seems like I see you scribbling in it all the time."

Straightening up in order to move another pawn without scattering popcorn, John studies Mac for a moment and then shrugs, deciding he's okay with sharing one of his secrets. "Most of it's impressions of places and people, sometimes things that have happened. It's a habit I picked up in a Creative Writing course I took in college."

The sound of horses and gunfire supply a surreal background to their game and conversation, along with the click and clatter of the reel. Mac's bishop comes out to play before his fingers return to the leather cover as if it's magnetized, although he doesn't attempt to open it. "So it's your personal journal?"

His popcorn finished, John sacrifices a pawn before picking up the book and flipping through it idly. "Sort of, except I rarely write anything about me."

Mac frowns at the board, contemplating the obvious move. He stalls by asking, "So are you planning on putting together a book or something? Write a New York Times bestseller?"

Placing the book on the shelf below, John smiles and shakes his head. "Well, I don't know about a bestseller, but I've sometimes thought about writing a novel. I had a few short stories published while I was still in school, but nothing since then. A little too busy…ah…" John closes his eyes for a moment, the wound still raw months after. "…flying helicopters to do much else."

"Published where?" Mac takes the pawn and poses it a few inches from the board, arranging it so that it partially covers what appears to be a splotch of dried glue.

John nods at the expected loss and nudges another pawn forward. "Some literary collection at Stanford. My professor convinced me to send them in."

"Stanford?" The curiosity is plain in Mac's voice as he studies his choices.

Mac and the game engage John enough that he drops a few of his usual defenses to let slip, "My dad's idea of teenage rebellion was going to Stanford instead of Harvard."

"I'm guessing that joining the Air Force is tied into that somehow." Mac doesn't look up to check John's reaction, too busy jumping his knight into the fray. "Not too many English majors flying military helicopters, so your degree was in...."

Mac's knight falls victim to a lowly pawn as John teasingly admits, "You're right about that. I only have a minor in English Lit. My undergrad's in Math with a master's in Applied Mathematics."

The shelf jolts with Mac's surprised hip-check, the box of popcorn and the captured pieces tipping over as he blurts, "Jesus, Sheppard! What the hell are you doing running an antique movie projector in Willoughby?"

Appalled at how close he's come to revealing too much, John turns and walks away from the game, keeping his back to Mac as he pretends to check how much film remains on the reel. He rubs the back of his neck and stretches it until it cracks, then he turns around and manages not to let his voice break when he answers Mac's outburst with as few words as possible. "Not flying."

Mac's eyes widen in the dim light and the lower corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn't say a word. He looks down at the board, where nothing has shifted due to magnets, fussily stands up the tipped-over pieces next to it, and then captures John's pawn with an avenging bishop. John watches silently for a moment, then returns to his side of the shelf, slides his queen diagonally, and declares, "Check."

After staring at the board in dismay, Mac looks up and pokes an accusing finger at John. "You distracted me!"

Relieved that he made it through without losing either the game or his cool, John grabs some more popcorn with a grin. "At least I didn't cheat."

~.~.~.~.~

John taps lightly on the half-open door before sticking his head inside the factory's office. "Hey, Harry. Seen Mac around?"

Harry looks up from the book he's reading and shakes his head with a puzzled smile. "No, can't say as I have." He sounds a little raspy, but his words are clear and sharp, which leads John to believe he hasn't been drinking recently. "Matter of fact, it's been a couple of days since he was here last. It was when the two of you were checking out the last of those machines."

"Hunh. I thought maybe I'd just missed him at breakfast yesterday and again this morning, but I checked and Daisy says he hasn't stopped by the Sunrise at all." John slouches down into the chair opposite Harry with a worried frown. "I'd call him, but I don't have his number. Do you think maybe he left and went back to Nevada?"

"I suppose that's a possibility, although I'm pretty sure he would have stopped in to say goodbye first. Why don't I give him a try at Lily's?" Harry sets aside the book, picks up the receiver of the old rotary phone on the corner of the desk, and then slowly dials the seven numbers. John can hear the ring tones clearly across the desk and, after a seemingly endless count of ten, Harry shakes his head and hangs up. "Nobody's home."

John considers his options for a moment before asking, "Do you suppose I could I get that number? I can try again later."

"Sure, don't see any problem with that," Harry grants, opening a drawer in search of a pencil and piece of paper. He jots down the string of numbers and adds another line. "Better yet, you could swing on by Lily's place. It's just a few miles down the road at 8127 Lakeshore. Yellow house with white trim, cardinal on the mailbox." Rising to his feet with a grimace, he hands the paper to John with a rueful smile. "I swear my bones get creakier every day." He shuffles slowly toward the door, waving at John to follow. "Need to grab a new book from my library. Come on along. You might find something you'd like to borrow."

Mac had restricted their explorations to the first floor of the factory, since Harry occupied the second floor and deserved some privacy, so John can't resist the opportunity to peer into the rooms they pass by, fascinated by the glimpses of arcane paraphernalia behind half-open doors. At the end of the dark hall, they turn the corner into a low-ceilinged room with a door half-hidden by racks holding scattered bolts of dusty felt and satin. Behind the door, with a flick of a switch, a single bare bulb reveals wooden shelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with hundreds of hardcover and paperback books. Harry tucks the book he's holding into an empty slot before running his fingers along the line of faded spines in search of new material.

"Looks like you have quite a variety here." Smiling at the odd mix of titles, John asks, "When I interrupted you earlier, it looked as if you weren't quite finished with the Isherwood you just put back. Didn't you like it?"

Harry chuckles as he crosses the room to peruse another shelf. "'A Single Man?' Oh, I liked it well enough. I just skipped reading the last chapter or so. Guess you could say I've never been fond of endings." He shakes his head, pulls a slim volume free, and flips through it as he adds, "Lily used to claim that's why I'll still be rattling around in this place a hundred years from now, a bunch of old bones that forgot how to let go."

An unlabelled cardboard box shoved in tightly on a bottom shelf distracts John from his internal cataloging of Harry's eclectic tastes in literature, and he crouches to look a little closer. "What's inside this?"

Harry glances over and shakes his head with a mild frown. "Not sure. Why don't you open it and see?"

The box comes free with a little prying and John opens the flaps to expose an IBM Selectric with a gleaming metal print ball and cream-colored case. Harry leans over to take a look at John's find and chuckles as he recognizes it. "I haven't seen that old thing in years. Forgot I even had it."

John pokes at the ribbon and the piece that reminds him of a golf ball and asks, "Does it still work?"

"Used to." Harry shrugs, seeming unsure of the answer. "I never really got along with the thing, so I just packed it up and stuck it back here." He watches John carefully replace the machine in the box before he makes a suggestion. "Say, Mac mentioned you like to write. Why don't you take it along with you? One less piece of junk cluttering up the place and leaves me space for a few more books."

John looks up at Harry in surprise. "Uh...thanks. Are you sure? I mean I can pay...."

"Never mind about that." With the tip of his shoe, Harry nudges the box closer to John until he finally picks it up and rises to his feet. "You've been helping Mac help me, and it's not like it's worth much anyway. Besides, I never thanked you for what you did that day on the pier...I...I'm glad you were there, John. I can promise you it won't happen again." Nodding once, as if he considered the subject suitably closed, Harry turns his attention back to the bookshelves. "Ah, it's been a while since I've read any Delany." He extracts a thick paperback, flips it open, and begins to read in a voice as smooth and shadowed as the words. " _...to wound the autumnal city. So howled out for the world to give him a name. The in-dark answered with wind._ "

Unfamiliar with the passage, John has to wait until Harry closes the book in order to identify the bold printed title, 'Dhalgren.' "Nice. I've read a few of his short stories, but none of his books," John confesses. "Mostly the Nebula Awards collections."

"He's got some interesting things to say about losing one's identity, couched inside classical allegory and surrealism." Harry offers the book to John with a smile. "Here, you can borrow it and I'll...."

John hefts the box in his arms and declines with a laugh. "Thanks, but I've already got a stack I picked up from the used bookstore. Besides, if I'm going to use this and get serious about writing, you'll have plenty of time to not finish reading it before I'm ready to start."

Harry nods with a benevolent smile. "Okay, then I'll hold on to Mr. Delany's epic for you. Just let me know when you've cleared a space on your calendar and you can take it with you."

His literary prize in hand, Harry escorts John from the room, turning off the light and closing the door behind them. The next stop requires Harry to pull a key ring from his pocket and unlock the door, which is the first time John has encountered a locked door in the building. Harry seems to notice John's surprise and explains with a chuckle, "After Mac got hold of that bottle and Lily almost cleaned me out, I learned my lesson." He pushes open the door to reveal cases of unlabeled bottles stacked four and five high along the walls. "Here's what's left, at least most of it anyway."

John isn't quite sure what to say, so settles for a simple, "That's a lot of whiskey."

Harry steps just far enough into the room to grab one of the dusty bottles, offering it to John. "Here. Take that along with you."

Both his hands full, John retreats a step and shakes his head. "I don't know, Harry. I'm not much of a drinker."

"Always good to keep a little something on hand, just in case." Harry smiles and tucks the bottle inside the box John's holding. "If Mac stops by, I'll tell him you were looking for him.

Recognizing that the battle has already been lost, John smiles back and concedes. "Thanks, Harry. For everything." He turns and heads toward the stairs, calling back over his shoulder, "I'll catch you later." As he turns the corner, John hears the click of a lock and Harry's usual laid-back reply.

"Anytime, John Sheppard. Anytime."

~.~.~.~.~

The white ball clicks into the green plastic putting cup for the twenty-fifth time in a row, and John takes a sip from the unlabeled bottle in celebration of his perfect score. He shudders as the mouthful burns its way to his stomach, thankful that Harry had been right and he'd stopped noticing the taste after the third drink.

After carefully placing the bottle on the corner of the desk, John bends over to retrieve the golf ball for another round, leaning heavily on the secondhand putter as the floor takes on an unexpected slant. He straightens quickly, the tags around his neck swinging free as he sways along with the slowly spinning walls, and he wipes the sudden sweat from his forehead and mutters, "Whoa. Guess maybe I should sit down for a minute."

The desk chair is right there, so he follows his own suggestion and takes a seat. His dog tags thump more gently against his chest than he thumps into the chair, and he fumbles them into the palm of his hand to peer blearily at them. After a few moments, he recalls that he hadn't worn the tags while sitting in his corner office at Sheppard Utilities and that he'd felt disturbingly light without their weight around his neck, as if he could have floated away if he'd been able to open the windows twenty-three stories above the ground.

A rattling hum intrudes on his introspection, the same malevolent sound that has been taunting him for days. He drops the tags back inside his shirt and frowns at the plastic and metal beast crouching on the desk it has ruled for five long days. He's counted five morning runs past an empty house, five breakfasts eaten alone in the Sunrise, five afternoons wasted in a 12 by 16 room that shrinks as the hours pass, and five nights spent in an even smaller projection booth with no one stopping by with popcorn and games.

In those five days, John hasn't tamed the beast, hasn't managed more than the occasional sheet of twenty-pound bond splattered with random sentences minus even a hint of cohesion. He doesn't understand why he can't piece together the words he's always found easy to scribble in his journal, why he can't transfer those copperplate paragraphs to 12-point type without losing their significance.

The metal print ball gleams in the light of the small lamp and the paper under the roller is blank and John raises his hands to rest his fingers on the home keys, only to be thwarted by the handle of the putter he's still gripping. His thought processes interrupted once again, he rises to return to his game when the electronic chuckle and mutter of the machine surges, as if to mock his failure.

The sound changes to a sputtering whine when the head of the putter descends in a slice more often seen in a butcher shop than on a fairway.

~.~.~.~.~

"...through it's from the other side so it's probably not a break-in?" Worried mutters rouse John from his stupor, although his head is too heavy to lift from the extremely hard desktop to look around. The voice moves closer accompanied by a broad hand that rests on the tense muscles between John's shoulders, the palm supplying much-appreciated warmth. "John? Hey, are you all right?"

A few blinks of sticky eyelids and John's able to make out the pale fuzz of a familiar face in the dim light from the window. He smiles in pleased recognition and mumbles a greeting. "Mmm... Hey…you're back, Mer...Meredith, no...Merry...uh…Mac. 'S like that kid's song, Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack all dressed in...."

"Great." The crooked frown that accompanies that sour pronouncement makes it clear it's anything but. "Now you're going to make me sorry that I shared my childhood traumas with you."

His whiskey-fueled good humor evaporating as he remembers what happened earlier, John struggles to raise his head and apologize to his unexpected visitor, who's crouched beside John's chair. "Sorry...no, I'm...one that's sorry. 'S not a good time, Mac."

Mac pats John's back and rises to his feet. "No, I can definitely see it isn't the right time to celebrate my new role of uncle and, from the looks...and smell, it probably won't be for a while." John watches the room spin a little when Mac turns around to survey the damage. "Listen, do I need to call the police...or an ambulance?"

John sits up a little straighter with an ill-advised jerk then shakes his head more slowly, taking care to enunciate clearly. "No. I'm fine. Just a little, a little accident."

"It certainly appears as if Harry's rotgut was a contributing factor in this particular hit-and-run." A bottle is waved impatiently in front of John's face, the inch or two that's left of its contents sloshing up the sides in amber waves. "How much of this crap did you drink tonight, John? I need to know if we're going to be taking a quick trip to the emergency room for alcohol poisoning."

John squints at the bottle and then looks up into Mac's concerned face to assure him, "Didn't drink that much. Spilled most of it."

"Spilled?" Mac's eyebrows rise in disbelief and he turns to survey the room again. "Ah. I see. Well, I think it's safe to say you won't be sleeping _there_ for a while. You left one hell of a wet spot." Thumping the bottle down on the edge of the desk, Mac nudges the nearest pile of debris with a foot before bending over to tug John's duffel free. He unzips it and begins to stuff the clothing leaking from the demolished dresser inside.

John watches Mac's actions in bafflement for a few moments before he blurts, "You're back." His brain not yet firing on all cylinders, he doesn't wait for a sarcastic reply to the obvious, asking instead, "How'd you get in?"

"Listen, I know it's almost midnight, but my flight back from Vancouver was delayed. I had some good news to share and I was going to call you and ask if you wanted to join me for a late dinner at my place since the Rose is closed Mondays, but you don't have a phone, so I thought I'd take a chance and stop by and...." Mac twists a little to look around the room before continuing, his voice sounding a little awed at the extent of the destruction. "Wow. You...uh...really lost it, didn't you? I mean the worst I ever did was throw one of my laptops through my apartment window, which happened to be open at the time and, fortunately for my hopes of winning a Nobel sometime in the near future, the laptop landed in a rosebush so it was just a little scratched up...but you...."

Mac pauses long enough to gesture toward the door. "Anyway, it wasn't locked. When I saw the whatever-that-is shoved through the middle of it, I thought it would be a good idea to come inside and see if you were still in one piece. I have to admit it's a good thing that Richie was too cheap to install a real door instead of this hollow-core piece of crap, otherwise I suspect your hand would have broken instead."

Looking over at his much-abused club, which would never putt straight again, John winces at the splintered hole surrounded by the dents of repeated attempts to smash his way through. "Oh." He drops his head back down on his desk, pillowed on his crossed arms, hoping that when he wakes up again that the whole thing will turn out to be a very bad dream.

Muffled thuds and grumbling balances John on the edge of unconscious until the noise recedes into the distance, and then he's suddenly hauled back from his blind date with comatose with a shake and an irritated whisper close to his ear. "Come on, don't do this. Wake up, John. Your stuff's already down in the car."

"What?" Unfortunately, it wasn't a dream and the room's still a wreck when John raises his head and peers around blearily. "What're you…." Confused by Mac's attempt to lever him out of the chair and onto his feet, John shoves himself backward and ends up sitting on the floor.

Mac rolls his eyes and reaches down to grab John's elbow. "We're going to my place, idiot. Now stop being such a pain in my ass and get up," he snaps irritably although, even as impaired as he is, John can detect a layer of amusement beneath the complaints.

With Mac's assistance, John scrambles to his feet, and then sways while he tries to regain his balance. The contents of his stomach threaten to make a surprise appearance, but thankfully settle again with a couple of deep breaths. Picking their way around the remnants of his few possessions, they stumble toward the door, where John decides to stop the merry-go-round long enough to get off. Mac sounds a little odd, as he says, "No, I don't think so, Tiger Woods. I think we'll just leave this here, okay?" There's a tug at John's hand, so John blearily peers down to see Mac carefully detaching John's fingers from what used to be John's putter. John's suddenly glad he can't feel his lips because he's pretty sure an embarrassing pout has taken them over, but he gives in to Mac's request without an argument.

All the way out of the room and down the hallway, Mac's arm is warm and firm around John's waist and, although navigating the stairs is an adventure, they make it outside without any further mishaps. Finally, with a sigh of relief, Mac helps John into the passenger seat of his car, warning him, "I'm only going to say this once, Sheppard. Puke in the car and you're cleaning it up."

~.~.~.~.~

Warm sunlight combined with the scent of coffee tickles John's senses and he slowly forces open gritty eyelids to see Mac leaning over him with a large mug in each hand.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. How do you feel?"

Despite a lingering ache behind his eyes, Mac's unsuccessful attempt at a soft whisper brings a smile to John's face. Cautiously propping himself up on one elbow, he answers in a slightly raspy voice, "Not too bad considering, although I should probably be answering to Dopey this morning. I think the aspirin and all that water you forced me to drink last night helped. One of those for me?"

"It can be. I just came in here to see if you'd returned to the land of the coherent yet." Chuckling, Mac holds a mug just out of reach. "Since you're mixing your fairytales, that's a point against." When John bats his gummy eyelashes and whimpers pathetically, Mac hands the precious liquid over with a dramatic sigh. "Oh, all right. Here."

Carefully sitting up further in the bed while balancing the mug, John sips and then gulps when he discovers it's at the perfect temperature. He moans at the rich dark flavor and exclaims, "God, this is incredible. If you have coffee like this at home, why do you hang out at the Sunrise all the time?"

After slurping from his own mug, Mac shrugs. "Gets too quiet here by myself. Too accustomed to the background noise of the labs, I guess. The company at the diner makes it worth the trip." Shuffling his bare feet against the carpet, Mac looks toward the window, his cheeks reddening. After a moment, he clears his throat and turns back to John, obviously forcing a hearty note into his voice when he asks, "Up for some breakfast? Jeannie sent me back with some disgustingly healthy wholegrain muffins. I can do eggs, too. Over easy, right?"

"Sure. Sounds good." Feeling a little less like a certain dwarf, John finishes his coffee, and then glances around the room before setting the mug atop his journal, which has somehow ended up on the nightstand next to the bed. His hand rasps across at least two days of stubble on his jaw and he grimaces down at his stained and creased t-shirt. "Think I need to clean up first."

Mac nods and points toward an antique highboy on the opposite side of the bed. "Your clothes are in there and the bathroom's next door on the right." Grabbing John's mug, he's out the door in a flash, calling back to John as he closes the door, "I'll give you fifteen minutes to approximate something human, then I start frying. I'm starved!"

John grins and shakes his head at the oddly familiar Johnny Cash poster taped to the back of the door, and then he climbs out of the comfortable bed with a muffled groan. Scratching his belly through worn cotton, he ambles over and gingerly tugs the brass handles on the top drawer of the dresser, reassured when it slides open easily and he can see at least some of his clothes folded neatly inside. Grabbing clean boxers, a t-shirt, and sweatpants to take with him, he searches the room in vain for his dopp kit before deciding Mac had likely placed it in the bathroom.

A few steps later, out the bedroom door and into the next, and John finds the kit on the bathroom counter on top of a couple of clean towels. Before he starts to lather up his face, he studies himself in the mirror above the sink and frowns at the dark circles under his eyes, squinting a little against the renewed throbbing in his head. A quick check of the medicine chest reveals a bottle of aspirin and he downs two, chasing them with a scooped handful of water from the faucet. His shaving is perfunctory, trading closeness for speed but, after he steps into the bathtub and turns on the wonderfully hot water, he reflects that it won't be the first time he's eaten cold eggs and he takes his time scrubbing away the remnants of the night.

A knock on the bathroom door jerks John out of a half-doze against the tiled wall and he fumbles at the faucet as he calls back, "Be right out!" In the interim, John's stomach has decided that food is an excellent idea, and he towels off briskly and yanks on his clothes without further delay. Mac is walking back down the stairs as John opens the bathroom door, and John pads along barefooted behind him into the bright, cheerful kitchen.

"Coffee's on the counter, juice is in the 'fridge if you want it, glasses in that cupboard." Standing in front of the stove, Mac points out the items with the spatula he's holding, then sets it down to begin cracking eggs onto a griddle. "You want two or three?"

His head tucked inside the refrigerator in search of the juice, John answers, "Two's fine. Want anything out of here?" When Mac grunts a negative, John grabs a small bottle of grape juice and lets the door swing closed. He doesn't bother with a glass, just cracks the seal and gulps half of the container before setting it on the table and heading for the coffee. He refills both of their mugs and takes them over to the table, just in time to grab the plate Mac hands him. They both take a seat and there's nothing except appreciative noises in the kitchen for the next few minutes.

Eggs gone, John snags a second muffin from the basket on the table, taking a bite before he settles back in his chair with a contented sigh. Washing down sweet mouthfuls with coffee, he looks across the table and notices that Mac's looking a little more worn that usual. It strikes John that Mac hasn't explained his absence yet, and John narrows his eyes in thought for a moment before asking, "So I…uh…vaguely recall you saying something last night about good news?"

Mac looks up from his coffee mug and smiles. "Oh! I'm an uncle! Madison Alicia Miller, five pounds seven ounces, nineteen inches long, blonde hair, the bluest eyes, almost worth getting a phone call at three in the morning telling me I had to get my ass on a plane to Vancouver immediately or risk diabolical sibling revenge plots for the rest of my life."

"Jeannie had the baby." The rush of relief at the simple reason behind Mac's disappearance takes John by surprise, and he gets up from the table to refill his coffee mug to conceal it. Deliberately keeping his tone casual, he remarks, "Sounds like the two of you finally kissed and made up."

Mac flushes and ducks his head in mild embarrassment. "Yes, well, just because she got herself knocked up by some English major and her priorities shifted overnight, doesn't mean that she can't go back and finish her doctorate in a few years." His chin rises at a familiar tilt as he insists, "She is a McKay, after all," and he holds his mug out so John can fill it with the last of the pot.

Resuming his seat, John cradles his mug in his hands and stares into it as he finally, sheepishly, thanks Mac. "So, I…I guess I messed up last night. I really appreciate what you did. You didn't have to…."

As John should have anticipated, Mac interrupts him before he can finish. "Of course I didn't have to, but that's what friends do. Right?" In an abrupt about-face, his tone switches from impatient to uncertain. "I mean, we are friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we are," John quickly assures him, leaning forward to shorten the distance between them. "Harry and I even got a little worried when we didn't know where you'd gone."

Mac's eyes widen in pleased surprise at John's confession. "Oh. You…you were? I'm sorry, but it was sort of an emergency and I didn't think anyone would care…."

"Hey, it's okay." John smiles and settles back again, minor crisis averted. "Just…a phone number would be good for the future."

"It's not like it would have done me any good to try to call since you're living in the dark ages in a room not much bigger than a box." Mac begins to sputter, a frown darkening his face. "And…and about that. You…you're not going to be able to stay there, you know."

John tries to shrug away the concern he hears in Mac's voice. "I'll need to do some repairs, but it'll be okay." A sudden flash of recall about the poster - along with everything else that appears to have migrated to Mac's overnight - prepares John for the next outburst.

"No, really. It's…." Mac gets up from his chair and begins to pace between the refrigerator and the stove, his hands waving and his voice rising. "That place is terrible! It's too small and cramped, it'll be too hot in the summer and you don't have anyplace to cook and…and you should stay here. With me. I know the room I put you in is a little frilly, but that's because it was my aunt's room. It's larger than mine is, but I didn't feel right switching rooms when I got here and, anyway, we can fix it up so it suits you. The place doesn't cost me anything, so it's not like I'm going to charge you…."

John's on his feet, reaching out to slow the increasingly agitated pacing. "Mac. Stop. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay." Mac shakes John's hand off, visibly angry at John's stubbornness. "Here I am rattling around in this house by myself while you're…. I can't let you go back there now that I've seen it. I had no idea what…."

Feeling as though it's inevitable, John takes a deep breath and, without even consulting Lady Liberty, leaps.

"Okay. You win. I'll stay."

 

  



	4. Fun and Games

Coffee and contests at the Sunrise transform into breakfast and games in a sunny kitchen overlooking the lake. It turns out that Mac's a decent cook; he just couldn't be bothered to spend the time and effort on it for one person. He bounces around the kitchen from cupboard to stove, pleased that John's presence gives him a chance to try out new recipes as well as indulging in the old favorites tucked away in Lily's recipe file. Although John's never learned to cook much beyond toast and ramen, he's perfectly happy to chop and stir and taste test when required.

Despite Mac's multiple offers, John isn't interested in making any changes to the bedroom; it's just a place to sleep. Mac's obsession with home improvements isn't thwarted for long, though. A few days after John moved in, he comes back to the house from his shift at the Rose to find Mac in the middle of hooking up a new Playstation to an equally new widescreen television. Recognizing the futility of making any protests about the expense of entertaining him, John plops down on the sofa and props his feet up on the coffee table in order to test the controller, causing Mac to squawk amusingly at John's impatience. It's quickly apparent that beer, popcorn, and trash talking will be on the nightly agenda for the near future, adding to the college roommate decorative scheme.

It had taken only a few days for John to realize that Mac could be a slob at times. It's not a deal breaker, there's nothing alien growing in the refrigerator or lurking under the sofa cushions, but certain items tend to migrate around the house until they settle in as the latest addition to random piles of _stuff_. Of course, Mac insists the piles are anything but random and that things need to stay where he last left them so that he can find them later.

On the other hand, Mac did mumble an apology in response to a mildly sarcastic remark from John, offering the lame excuse that he'd lived alone since leaving college, as he relocated several stacks of journals and newspapers to make room for John at the kitchen table. He'd also sheepishly vowed to do better. Still, although Mac's untidiness is mildly offensive to John's military-trained 'a place for everything and everything in its place' mindset, John has to admit the benevolent chaos Mac imposes on almost every room in the house by the lake is nothing compared to the mess John had left behind at the Rose.

Feeling sheepish at his loss of control, John had been able to clean and repair the majority of the damage to the room before Richie stopped by pretending to be a landlord. All John has left to fix is the broken window, which he's special-ordered from the lumberyard. He'd taken advantage of Mac's offer to let John borrow the car in order to buy the necessary supplies, although he'd declined Mac's assistance in the repairs. When John had fleetingly considered the two of them maneuvering around each other in the tight space with sharp tools and paintbrushes, he'd decided it would be asking for trouble.

Unfortunately, John had inflicted damage on more than walls and furniture. The stack of bills in his wallet dwindled alarmingly in a few short days and, at the tail end of a morning run, John finds himself standing outside a local bank, which just happens to be located across the street from the bus station. He has yet another decision to make, whether to stay with Mac in Willoughby or to move on, and he clenches his hand around the silver coin in his pocket while he considers.

Leaving would be easy. He'd done it once already; abandoned a two-bedroom furnished apartment owned by his father's corporation, walked away from a guaranteed six-figure income without looking back. A few minutes to pack his duffel and John could be heading somewhere else - destination unknown. He wouldn't have to care about what he said or did because it wouldn't matter to anyone, not even himself.

Lady Liberty never sees the light of day.

He walks inside a bright-lit lobby and stands in line, smiles at the young woman behind the counter, and then asks about opening an account with a wire transfer, tapping into the years of unspent combat pay accruing interest in a federal bank in DC.

~.~.~.~.~

John frowns down at the rusted lawnmower and resists giving it the swift kick it deserves. With a sigh of exasperation, he gives up and goes inside, letting the kitchen door slam behind him in his frustration. "Mac! Is there a toolbox somewhere around here?" he shouts, hoping that Mac can hear him upstairs and will come down so that John doesn't have to kick off his grubby sneakers to go looking.

"You don't have to yell," Mac grumbles back from the living room. "I'm right here." A few moments later, he appears in the doorway between the rooms, a scientific journal folded in his hand. "What's up?"

"The stupid lawnmower won't start," John complains as he grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "It won't even try to turn over when I pull the starter cord."

Mac rolls his eyes and tosses the journal and a red pen on the table before he opens the cupboard under the sink to reveal a red metal box. "This is all we have. Aunt Lily wasn't big on home repairs." He steps aside so that John can yank the toolbox out, even as he says, "You know, you don't have to do that. I can't even tell you how long it's been since the thing's been out of the storage shed. Why don't I just call the lawn service she hired last year? I found the receipts in her desk."

"I'm perfectly capable of mowing a lawn…as long as I have a working mower," John snaps back, still frustrated. "I'm also planning on trimming the lilacs back and fertilizing the rose bushes while I'm at it."

Leaning back against the counter, Mac raises his eyebrows in surprise and asks, "Are you a closet botanist or something? Doesn't seem like an Air Force pilot would have much time or use for gardening."

The flippant question catches John unprepared and he jerks back as if burned. "Exactly." John ignores the Mac's flinch at his clipped answer and carries the toolbox outside without another word. He sets it down with exaggeratedly careful movements next to the mower, shoving the undeserved flare of resentment back inside where it belongs. Squatting down, he clicks the latch and flips the top open, rummaging through the boxful of screwdrivers and wrenches in search of the right size to loosen the bolts on the engine cover. A sharp edge connects and he yanks his hand back out with a yelped, "Fuck!"

A shadow falls across John as he tumbles backward to sit on the grass. "Idiot. Let me see what you did." Mac bends over and gently tugs John's index finger out of his mouth, the place it had automatically retreated to, safe from the attacking tools. The jagged cut isn't deep enough to require stitches, but it's oozing red across the knuckle above a smear of grease. "This needs to be cleaned up. I hope your tetanus shot is up-to-date." He tugs John up from the ground and drags him toward the house, elevating John's injured hand high enough that John's sure anyone passing by will think they're dancing across the lawn.

"I've got it. Let go." Embarrassed by his temper and the situation, John yanks his hand free, although he still follows Mac inside. They both crowd into the half bath off the kitchen and Mac directs a thorough washing with antibacterial soap while he searches through the first-aid kit for antiseptic cream and a bandage. After drying his hands off with a clean towel, John presents the injury to Mac with a patient sigh, well aware that there's no chance he'll allow John to take care of the rest himself. "All sterilized and ready for surgery, Dr. Mac."

Mac rolls his eyes at John's lame joke and then bends his head to focus on carefully applying antiseptic cream and a bandage. Task complete, he's closing the first-aid kit to put it away when John stops him, pointing at a plastic tube with a bright yellow label. "What's that?"

"Hunh, I didn't really notice that she still had one." Mac pulls the tube out and turns it so that John can see the writing on the label. "It's an epipen. Way past the expiration date, though. Still, it's a good idea to have one down here, so I should go get one of mine and replace it, just in case."

Curious, John accepts the device and examines it a little closer. "For allergies, right?"

Mac nods and nudges John out of the bathroom ahead of him. "Yes, to treat anaphylactic shock. In my case, for bee stings, as well as the citrus. I remember it took me a while to get past being too afraid to enjoy myself outside. The first time Aunt Lily took me to a pick-your-own farm for strawberries and I saw a bee, I ran out of the field screaming. She couldn't get me back out of the car and finally gave up trying. We went home with only half a pint of berries. I was completely traumatized and wouldn't leave the house for days."

John follows Mac out of the kitchen as he heads for the stairs. "So what changed?"

Stopping on the bottom stair, Mac shrugs. "I decided being scared all the time sucked and, as long as I could control enough variables, I wasn't going to let fear keep me trapped inside a bubble anymore. Adopting a 'know thy enemy' strategy, I asked Aunt Lily to bring home any books on bees that she could find. After I learned everything I could about bees and their habits, so I'd know what to avoid and when, we took an epipen and six quart baskets out to the strawberry fields and came home with both the epipen and the baskets full."

Mac reaches into a pants pocket to pull out another yellow-labeled tube as he resumes the climb upward. "I always have one with me." Glancing back over his shoulder at John, he frowns before tucking it away. "I probably should have shown you how to use one before now. To be honest, I didn't think of it because it's been a while since there's been anyone who's stayed around long enough…." Mac cuts himself off as he disappears down the upstairs hall, leaving John standing at the base of the stairs feeling a little guilty that he hadn't asked for more information on Mac's life-threatening allergies before.

When he sees Mac returning to the head of the stairs with a fresh epipen in hand, John calls up to him, "Hey, do you have extra one of those that I can keep with me?"

~.~.~.~.~

From the beginning, Mac insists that washing the dishes can wait, that he'll take care of them while John's out of the house running or working because he's not wasting time on domestic chores when they could be playing _Age of Empires_ instead. John's never argued very hard about it because he's just as eager to see if he can beat Mac's high score on Barbarossa's Crusade, or whether his latest expansion plan has advanced him enough to be able to build a Wonder.

Occasionally John finds one or two days' worth of dishes still stacked up across the counter when he walks into the kitchen after he's closed up the theatre, but he'd learned to leave them unwashed after one aborted attempt that resulted in a grumbling Mac dragging him away from the sink, ignoring the soapsuds dripping across the floor. Mac had shoved him down on the couch, handed him a game controller, and proceeded to engage John in a death match. John had taken the less-than-subtle hint and stopped trying to help, at least with the dishwashing.

The real reason behind Mac's quirk is finally revealed when John arrives at the house riding a used motorcycle. He'd been eyeing it for weeks at the dealership he runs past nearly every day, and he'd finally given in to the little voice whispering, 'Come on. It'll be fun.' Eager to share his excitement over his purchase, John hurries up the side stoop, stopping just inside the screen door when he catches sight of Mac at the kitchen sink. It's obvious Mac hadn't heard John arrive, since he's not simply standing there washing the dishes.

He's dancing.

The music is cranked up high and Mac is shouting, "I feel good," along with the raspy-voiced singer, sliding across the linoleum in white-socked feet to set a rinsed glass on a towel to drain. He shimmies his way back to the dishpan and goes back to scrubbing, bouncing and shaking his hips, raising a wooden spoon to his mouth to sing into it. Suddenly, as the trumpets signal the climax of the song, he backs up a step, bends his knees a little and then spins in place. Catching sight of John holding the door open so that it won't slam shut, Mac squeaks in surprise and the spoon goes flying, bouncing off a plate to go skittering across the floor, ending up under the kitchen table. Mac waves his hands, flinging soapsuds around the kitchen, shouting, "Jesus! You scared the crap out of me! How long have you been standing there?"

Grinning at Mac, John lets the door bang shut behind him as the music cuts off. "Long enough to know that you and your buddy James are definitely feeling good."

In the living room, there's a racheting sound then a muffled clunk and, a few seconds later, the Beach Boys begin to harmonize about how nice it would be to live together. Mac wipes his hands off on his water-spotted jeans and then crosses his arms, trying not to smile when John snickers at him, but failing. He gives up and laughingly admits, "So you've discovered my guilty secret...an addiction to my aunt's 45s."

John lets his eyebrows rise in mock surprise as he asks, "You have an addiction that requires large quantities of soapy water before certain _moves_ can be made?"

One room away, Brian Wilson and Mike Love croon about spending the day together and holding each other close the whole night through, and Mac's eyes widen suggestively, immediately followed by a flash of his crooked grin.

John chokes.

Mac tips his head and suggests, "Maybe you should go somewhere else and... _play_ while I finish up in here," sarcasm dripping from every word.

"I was going..." John gasps between a mix of coughing and laughter, "...to ask you if you wanted to take a ride on..."

If asked before, John would have sworn Mac's eyes couldn't possibly get any wider, but somehow they do. It's likely due to the height of the eyebrows reaching for his receding hairline. Weak from laughter, John's legs give up the battle and he staggers back and slides down the wall by the door, braying, "...my new bike!"

The Beach Boys finally fade away along with John's braying laughs and, after a brief pause and another set of mechanical clunks, Sammy Davis Jr. asks what kind of fool he is. Mac rolls his eyes, shakes his head in amused defeat, and walks back to the sink. John sits on the floor watching him scrub the last of the dishes, letting his amusement settle into an occasional chuckle.

Then Mac shimmies his hips 'round and round and up and down' with Chubby Checker, and John loses it again.

  



	5. Parade

"It's not exactly what I would have pictured you riding." Mac slowly circles the black motorcycle, reaching out to tap the mount of a side mirror. "It's kind of small and is this…plastic?"

John frowns and rubs a water spot on the back fender as he defends his purchase of the PC800. "It's plenty big enough at 800cc. Besides, size doesn't always matter."

Mac shakes his head and kicks the front tire gently as he retorts with a laugh. "Whoever told you that was lying."

"Hey, my last bike was a '96 Ninja and that was only 600cc." John slings a leg over the seat and tips the bike off the side stand. It balances easily with both of his feet planted flat on the ground. "I bought this model because it's perfect for touring; not too heavy, gets great gas mileage, and it has some cool features that'll come in handy on long rides. It's quiet, too." He turns the key and the engine starts to purr softly, sounding like a kitten compared to muscle bike tigers equipped with loud pipes.

Mac stands in front of the bike with his arms crossed, his chin set at a stubborn angle. "You sound like you're trying to sell it to me," he snaps. "And what happened to the Ninja?"

"My ex thought it was too dangerous. I had to choose between her and the bike." John turns the bike off and shrugs. "Looking back, I probably should have just kept the bike and saved us both the hassle."

A wince conveys Mac's sympathy as he blurts, "Ouch. You flew helicopters in combat zones and she was worried about a motorcycle?" After shaking his head in disbelief, his aggressive attitude suddenly switches to curiosity. "So what are these 'features' you're so excited about?" He walks toward the rear of the bike and pats the hard case mounted behind the seat. "I can see it has some extra storage."

"There's even more." John settles the bike back on the side stand and dismounts, then removes the key from the ignition to open a latched door on the gas tank. He reaches inside and pulls up on a lever, which releases the rear hatch with a slight pop. Grinning at Mac, he tugs on the hard case until the entire rear of the bike opens to reveal a split trunk. "A lot more." He points to the items filling the compartment. "A two-man tent, two compact sleeping bags, a cooler, and a duffel for clothes more."

Mac leans in to inspect the space with a hum of interest. "Impressive. I've never seen anything like this before. You could definitely fit a laptop…." He cuts off the comment and straightens back up, then admits with a grin, "Okay, I'll grant you cool. Actually, it's kind of geeky, but still cool."

Pleased with the minor concession, John grins back and lowers the rear until it clicks shut. He turns away and slides his hand over the leather seat, explaining, "This Corbin adds two inches on the seat height, the hard case has a padded back rest, and the custom foot pegs are set low enough that a passenger won't end up with their knees around their ears." A choked sound brings John's head around to check on Mac, but he doesn't see anything beyond a sudden flush to Mac's cheeks.

"A…passenger." Mac's tone is noticeably flat as he crosses his arms again.

A little worried about Mac's receptivity to the next revelation, John frowns and reaches for the latch on the hard case. "Well, yeah. I just said I wanted to take some time and check out the country around here. A _two_ -man tent. _Two_ sleeping bags." With a flourish, he opens the case to reveal two full-face helmets and two pairs of leather gloves. "I thought it would be nice to have somebody ride with me. Since you mentioned the other day that you'd never learned to drive one and didn't want to…."

"I'm not getting on that thing!" Mac explodes, his hands waving in the air. "The reason I never wanted one is they're dangerous!"

Determined to convince his friend otherwise, John pulls out one of the helmets and holds it out to Mac with a smile. "You told me that you decided not to live in a bubble."

Mac reaches out automatically, and then stops himself, throwing his arms wide as he shouts, "My disinclination to allow large and valuable portions of my body to be broken and smeared across pavement does not constitute regression into bubble habitation!"

John can't help but roll his eyes at Mac's escalating objections. He sighs and shakes his head, then waits until Mac winds down to a stop before insisting in a quiet, reasonable voice, "We're controlling the variables, buddy. Full-face helmet, Kevlar jacket, you'll wear your heaviest denims as well as boots and the gloves."

When John shoves the helmet toward Mac again and he takes it, John grins in relief. Spurred by the small victory, he continues. "I know what I'm doing. I've never dumped a bike, not even when I was learning, and I'm not looking to have either one of us pick up a case of road rash. Besides, this is a sport _touring_ bike. It's made for country roads, not racetracks." He watches Mac nervously weigh the helmet in his hands and plays his trump card. "Tell you what. I promise to stay within the speed limit at all times whenever you're with me."

Mac still has a worried look on his face, but he's much calmer when he says, "I guess I still don't understand why you didn't just buy some muscle bike that'll manage 200 miles an hour and leave me here while you ride around."

"Just because I happen to like things that go that fast…." John rubs the back of his neck, looking away from Mac for a moment while he gathers his thoughts for one last try at communicating what he wants. "Listen, it's just that…I…I want to explore the area and you miss a lot at that speed."

It suddenly strikes John that he'd rarely bothered trying to explain himself to anyone before he stepped off that bus, and he falters for an instant before realizing he's okay with that change. For the first time, he's actually speaking the words he's always reserved for pen and paper. He smiles at the thought, pleased when Mac responds with a smile of his own. John ducks his head shyly and then shrugs, finishes with a simple confession. "I've spent a lot of years on base or in the field, and there's a lot out there I've never had a chance to see. I thought it would be fun to share that with someone."

"You really want _me_ to come with you?" Mac asks hesitantly, and John can see the disbelief in his shadowed eyes.

A little aggravated by Mac's lack of trust, John drawls sarcastically, "No, Mac. I don't really want you to ride the bike with me. I just thought I'd buy all this stuff and let it sit on the back porch and grow artistic arrangements of mold."

"Okay, okay. I get it." Mac ducks his head shyly and admits, "It's just that not too many people would...uh...so the helmet, yeah. I guess I should try it on."

Relieved, John nods in pleased agreement. "Should fit. I bought the extra-large to make sure you wouldn't need to leave any of your genius behind."

It's Mac's turn to roll his eyes and drone sarcastically, "Oh, please, my side. You slay me." He settles the helmet on his head and allows John to check that it fits snugly. When John flips up the tinted visor to grin at him, Mac smiles back and then suggests, "Look, why don't we take a test drive over to Harry's? He's got some buyers coming in to take a look at the machinery and wants me to be there. I'll let you know how I feel about trekking around the countryside after that."

John nods and flashes a thumbs-up. "Cool. Let's call that Plan A."

~.~.~.~.~

Gravel crunches under the motorcycle's tires as John pulls to a stop. Mac waits until John has the bike steady before he climbs off, then he tugs the helmet off and grins at John, his eyes bright with glee. When John removes his own helmet and raises an eyebrow in a silent question, Mac laughs and demands, "So what was Plan B?"

John tips the bike onto the side stand, but remains sitting as he shrugs and admits, "I didn't really have one, but I think it probably would have involved ropes and a blindfold."

They're still laughing when they walk inside, and that makes Harry grin.

~.~.~.~.~

"It just doesn't seem like your kind of thing." John shakes his head in bafflement as they walk out of the hat factory's parking lot and head toward the center of town.

"Hey, I know I've had a lot of negative things to say about your military's policies, but that doesn't mean I don't respect the men and women who put their lives on the line every day," Mac protests hotly as they hurry down the side street. "Come on. It'll be starting any time now." Favorite travel mug filled with hot coffee in one hand, Mac pauses at the corner to scan up and down the crowded street and then tugs on John's sleeve before heading for an empty spot a few dozen yards away. "We can stand there."

John follows with a smile, nudging Mac with his shoulder as he joins him on the curb. "You know, it's funny. I've never been to a Memorial Day parade before. There weren't any nearby where I grew up, and I guess it was too much trouble for my parents to waste the time to drive us into DC to watch one."

"Hunh…it's my first one, too." Mac jostles John back, laughing along with a few other bystanders when John squawks and ends up in the street. "My summers here never started before the middle of June, so I missed them all. Of course, I was always here in time for the Fourth...and Canada Day."

Climbing back up on the curb, John forces Mac to make room for him before remarking, "That's right, you're Canadian. I guess you lucked out getting to celebrate both." With a shiver, he stomps his feet then rubs his hands together before stuffing them in the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. It's becoming all too apparent to John that at nine o'clock in the morning, the breeze off the lake that's pleasantly refreshing during a run is much too chilly for standing still.

"Sort of." Mac turns to look at John and frowns at his hunched posture. "I told you it was too early to wear shorts. Here, maybe this will help warm you up." He thrusts his mug at John impatiently as a blare of trumpets in the distance signals the parade's start. When John accepts the offering with a nod of thanks, Mac shifts to stand on the other side to help shield John from the wind, and then finishes his explanation. "Aunt Lily was in kind of an odd position in Willoughby, and it took more than a few years for the locals to accept her. We usually spent a quiet Canada Day and then she really went all out with a huge picnic with the neighbors on the Fourth, including a bonfire. There were even fireworks."

John takes a few warming sips of the hot coffee then hands the mug back. "Accept her? Why? Just because she was Canadian?" He leans out to look when a patter of applause greets the grumbling roar of the motorcycle escort and thumping drums of the high school marching band turning the corner a few blocks away.

"No, it wasn't that simple." Mac's voice rises over the sound of the horns playing a rousing Sousa medley, all of his attention on John, rather than the approaching band. "A lot of the town didn't like what my uncle did during the Vietnam War. When it came time for the guys like Harry and him to show up at boot camp, my uncle headed north. That's where he met my aunt. His parents passed away while he was in Canada so, after he died, she came down here to take care of what was left of the Stanhopes." Determined to finish despite the rising patriotic brouhaha, Mac shouts, "She fell in love with the place and ended up staying, even though she didn't know anyone here."

The first band has passed and John reaches over to press his fingers against Mac's mouth, shakes his head when Mac tries to protest, then drops his hand and deliberately turns to watch the parade marshal drive by in a black convertible decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. The pretty lady sitting next to the white-haired gentleman waves at the crowd and smiles, despite the fact that she's probably freezing in her sleeveless gown, raising a set of sympathetic goosebumps on John's arms. A five-man color guard follows the marshal's car, marching in precision, uniforms crisp and neat, rifles and flags held in perfect position. John suddenly settles into parade rest, his chin rising in an unexpected burst of pride as the colors pass by.

Mac seems to sense the change in John and remains silent as several rows of veterans follow the second band, the variance in uniforms marking more than one branch of the armed forces, as well as different actions or wars. With a flash of insight, John understands that the lack of survivors is what has closed the separation between the men and women of the different branches, pulling them together into a single unit. The fact that Mitch, Dex, and Holland will never participate in something like this strikes John deep in the pit of his stomach, and he struggles not to reveal his anguish as Harry marches in step with his graying head held high over a Purple Heart and the bright chevrons of an Army corporal.

A few more cars carrying disabled veterans bring up the rear of the short parade, followed by a volunteer ambulance and two volunteer fire engines. Firemen wearing their boots and hats toss hard candy to the kids who rush into the street after they pass by, shouting and waving in childish pleasure when the sirens blat. The sidewalks empty behind the final motorcycle cop as the crowd tags along, their next destination the small park by the lake for the speeches beside the veterans' memorial.

Left behind in their personal bubble, Mac stands next to John, waiting, silent in the face of unexpected emotion. After a few moments, John shakes himself out of his odd reverie and falls out of his parade rest. In an effort to return to some semblance of normalcy, he picks up the thread of their earlier conversation, turning to begin the walk toward the park. His voice starts out a little thin and raspy then strengthens as he observes, "Seems kind of…weird…that a vet like Harry ended up being such good friends with the widow of a draft dodger."

John can almost feel the weight of Mac's concerned regard but, after a moment, he goes along with John's unspoken request, obviously resisting his usual impulse to question. "I suppose you might think that, but Harry's never been one to hold a grudge. He actually went to school with my uncle; they even graduated the same year, although I guess they weren't really friends then. Still, I've never heard Harry say a single thing about my uncle choosing to leave the country."

Handing John the almost-empty mug, Mac uses both hands to assist in his exposition, weighing his observations. "When you think about it, Douglas Stanhope could have done a lot of different things to get out of serving, but he decided to make a statement by going to Canada, where he worked as a volunteer at an anti-draft center assisting other resisters. He never gave up his American citizenship and he paid his taxes - both American and Canadian. As my aunt put it, he traded his life in the US for his principles and, as a result, was never able to return to American soil as a free man. The 1977 amnesty came too late for him."

John frowns and admits, "I guess I never thought of it that way."

"It's okay, not many people do," Mac shrugs, his smile more lopsided than usual as he blinks slightly reddened eyes. "I don't remember him, but I know my aunt loved and missed him and thought he was brave for standing up for his convictions. She also believed Harry was just as brave for standing by his beliefs and going to Vietnam, even though she attended dozens of anti-war protests. It was the policies she protested against, not the people."

With a nod, John indicates his understanding, but forgoes any response as they approach the edge of the crowd around the memorial. The speeches had obviously been brief, since the color guard commands ring out, closely followed by a 3-volley salute traditionally performed by an honor guard. The high school band closes the short ceremony with 'The Star-Spangled Banner' and, once again, John feels a wave of feeling crash over him as he stands at attention, regretting his casual attire for the second time that day.

At the end of the anthem, the veterans and the crowd disperse in a variety of directions while John advances toward the memorial he'd never taken time to look at before. Mac follows closely behind, coming up to stand beside John as he silently reads the words etched into the base of the simple plinth. He nudges John gently with his shoulder and asks quietly, "Do you think you'll ever march in one of these parades?"

Jolted out of his thoughts of other memorials, headstones bearing his lost friends' names, John shakes his head and answers slowly, uncertain about how he feels. "No…I'm not…I mean, why?"

"You still wear your tags. I mean, you may not be in the Air Force anymore, but you're still a veteran. Obviously I don't know any details about what went on, but I…are you…are you ashamed of the time you spent in the Air Force?"

"I…. No." It wasn't a long delay, but John feels a flush of embarrassment that it took that long for him to answer such a simple question. "No, I'm not ashamed. I just wish…." He can't finish the sentence, the day's emotions too thick and heavy for him to push aside.

"Hey, it's okay. That was just one of those random thoughts that escape me every now and then without thinking it through. You certainly don't have to decide anything right now." Mac's arm around John's shoulders is light in contrast, comfortable and comforting in the chill lake wind. "I'm also thinking that we could skip the pancake breakfast with Harry and his friends. He'll understand."

"Okay." John follows Mac's gentle tugs and they leave the park, taking the long way back to the factory's lot, sticking to the more deserted side streets as they retreat. Mac is uncharacteristically quiet, as if sensing John needs the silence after the noise of the parade and the cacophony of his thoughts. Finally, they're at the car and, as John climbs inside and settles back into the seat, he finds it surprisingly easy to nod and agree with Mac's simple declaration.

"Next year."


	6. Q&A

A few days after the parade, John stops by the factory before work. He peeks into Harry's office and doesn't see him there, so he wanders down the hall to the next room to find Harry relaxing on a battered leather sofa, completely engrossed in an equally battered paperback. He looks up with a smile at John's tap against the doorjamb and then sits up, swinging his feet to the floor with a slight groan. "John. What can I do you for?"

John shrugs, always a little reluctant to ask for a favor, but then he reminds himself that Harry offered. "About that book? The Delany?"

"Finally come to borrow it? Sure." Harry gets up, leaving his book behind, and shuffles past John to lead him toward his library. "You can take as many as you like."

"Cool. Gets boring up in the booth sometimes." John follows Harry, glad to see that he hasn't started drinking yet. He's noticed that Harry seems to have cut back recently and wants to take it as a positive sign.

Once in the room, Harry immediately locates the novel and pulls it from the shelf. "Here it is, right where I left it." He hands it to John with a smile and asks, "How's your own writing going?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid. I'm back to longhand when I manage to write anything." Feeling a little embarrassed, John confesses, "I…uh…I sort of killed the typewriter. Sorry."

"Sounds like I missed out on some fun." Harry chuckles and shakes his head. "No need to apologize. It was yours. If you thought the machine needed to die, then I guess it was time."

Feeling a little better about what had happened, John grins back at Harry. "I'm afraid that wasn't a fair fight. I was armed and it never had a chance."

"Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do." Having bestowed that gem of wisdom with a mocking wink, Harry turns back to the nearest bookcase and studies the bindings. "Saw you and Mac at the parade the other day, John."

John follows suit, looking for a few moments for another interesting book before obliquely answering Harry's unspoken question. "Yeah. Sorry we didn't make it to the breakfast after."

"It's okay." Harry shrugs and tugs another paperback free. "Just a bunch of old men telling stories we've all heard dozens of times already." He turns to hand the book to John. "I've actually read this one cover to cover." There's a kind, yet inquisitive look in his eyes as he asks, "You ever tell your story to Mac?"

John doesn't look down, too puzzled by Harry's question to read the title of the book. "Story?"

"Everyone has stories to tell, to share with friends." Harry tilts his head in obvious interest. "I've gotten the impression that you didn't really choose to quit the Air Force, did you?"

John stiffens, suddenly wary of Harry's intentions. "It was my choice," he insists, and then he looks down at the book in his hand. It is a copy of 'No Exit' by Sartre, and John knows he hasn't fooled Harry with his careful avoidance of the underlying question yet again.

"Hobson's Choice or Morton's Fork? Either way, it's done and you need to move past it, although I guess I'm not the one to talk." Harry's hand is warm on John's shoulder and he can't help leaning into it a bit, although John can't look up from the French play that he vaguely remembers reading while at Stanford. "I've made a lot of choices in my life, John Sheppard. Some good, others not. I regret one of them with all my heart. I chose friendship over love, in the misguided belief it would be better for both of us. I was wrong and never spoke of it and then it was too late."

Still unwilling to admit to what he'd chosen and left behind, John stays silent and, after a gentle squeeze, Harry pulls his hand back. "Now I'm not saying you're facing the same, but there's definitely something eating at you that might be better said than kept inside. Might do you some good to find someone to listen."

Turning away after a brief smile, Harry resumes his search and says nothing more than "See you later," when John announces he's late for work and leaves with the two books in hand.

~.~.~.~.~

It's cold and rainy when Mac finds out that John hasn't yet tasted one of the specialties of the region, so he declares it's the perfect day to make Cincinnati chili. After a quick trip to the grocery store for ingredients, he drafts John for the position of sous-chef-in-training and hands him the recipe card with scribbled notes. John's in the middle of measuring the precise amounts of spices into a cup when he blurts out, "Why don't you ever ask any questions, Mac?"

Standing at the stove, Mac looks over his shoulder with a puzzled look on his face, the wooden spoon in his hand on autopilot. "What are you talking about? I ask questions all the time." He shakes his head at what he apparently believes is John's foolishness and turns back to the pot to make sure the onions are browning, not burning.

"I know you spend a lot of time on research on whatever it is you're working on, but you don't ask _me_ any questions," John clarifies with a shrug.

Mac doesn't answer right away and John is almost positive he's pretending to be too busy adding cloves of garlic to the onion. Mac stirs carefully for a minute or two, adjusting the heat under the pot before asking, "Can you hand me the meat?" John carries the bowl filled with cubes of sirloin over, and restrains himself with difficulty from repeating his question. He's reluctantly willing to grant that Mac needs to pay attention to the chili ingredients until it's ready to set on simmer.

John starts to worry a little because even after Mac browns the meat, stirs in the spices with the last few items, and turns down the heat, it's apparent he's still not ready to talk. He helps John clean up the dirty utensils and bowls, and then stands by the counter wiping his hands on a towel, while John perches on the edge of the table with one leg swinging free. Draping the towel over the rack by the sink, he finally faces John, leaning against the counter with a slight frown and shrug before haltingly admitting, "It's not that I don't want to know anything about you, like where you came from or why you're here. I just try not to ask because I don't want to give you a reason to leave."

John considers Mac's concerns for a moment, biting his lower lip as he tries to decide if there's any question he can't handle coming from Mac. Realizing he wouldn't have asked to begin with if it was going to be a problem, although he's still not ready to volunteer a lot of information, John shakes his head and says firmly, "We're cool, buddy. Not going to leave because you ask me something, just might not answer. Okay?"

Most of the strain leaves Mac's face and he tilts his head as he considers John. "You're telling me that I can ask you anything?" At John's emphatic nod, Mac flashes a crooked smile. "Okay, I've got one. Where'd you get the money for the bike?"

John grins back. The question makes an odd sort of sense since his bike had become Mac's latest obsession. He'd scanned a Honda repair manual into his laptop and set up a maintenance log, stripped off every piece of fiberglass fairing while checking for hidden frame damage, fiddled with the timing, and then added so much reflective stripping that John feels like he and the bike could join a circus. Realizing Mac's still waiting for an answer, John shrugs casually and explains, "Had it in the bank. Years of combat pay and nowhere in particular to spend it. No alimony payments, either. Nancy insisted we weren't together long enough for it to be a real marriage, let alone that kind of a divorce."

John can almost see Mac process that bit of information, filing it away in some mental manila folder he's set up with 'Sheppard, John' highlighted in cautionary yellow on the tab. Knowing Mac's probably compiled a long list, it's a little surprising when Mac volleys back with, "Right. Now you ask me a question."

"I…what?" John stammers, completely unprepared for the turnaround. It suddenly strikes him that Mac had always supplied information in scattershot declarations and somehow John had taken that to mean if something was important, Mac would tell him along with anything else that was crossing his mind at a particular moment. However, considering Mac's demand, that might not have been the case. As he watches the excited pleasure fade slowly from Mac's face, John frantically tries to think of something personal to ask before Mac gives up and leaves John behind. "Your sister. Jeannie, right? She's the only one, no brothers or anything? How old is she?"

Mac's eyes light up with his laughter. "Wow, when you finally let loose…yeah, she's the only one, eight years younger. The year she was born was the first I spent here with Aunt Lily. My parents sent me away for the summer so they could focus on her and not worry about a bored underage genius getting into trouble."

Relieved that he made it through one round unscathed, John grins and goes for a second. "Okay, your turn."

After a moment's pause, Mac asks abruptly, as if he's ripping a bandage off fast to minimize the pain. "Why aren't you in the Air Force anymore? I get the feeling sometimes that…."

John flinches and sidesteps with a simple, "I resigned my commission." He quickly turns the spotlight back onto Mac, not wanting to shut him down because he'd hit a question John wasn't ready to answer completely. "What made you decide to bring me home that night? I mean, I'd just trashed my place. You just packed everything up and stuffed me in your car like it was nothing to worry about."

Mac frowns and looks away, rearranges a few of the refrigerator magnets in reach, and finally answers with a soft, "It's not as though I haven't had one or two meltdowns myself."

"And you weren't worried that I might take it out on you next? Why not?"

When Mac faces John again, his smile is back. "It was the books."

"The books?" John raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued instead of satisfied by the unexpected response.

Mac shrugs and explains further. "Pretty much everything in your room was in shreds, except for the books and the poster. Even though you'd obviously lost it for a while, you still had enough control left not to damage what was important to you."

"I...." John doesn't know how to respond. Mac had raised a point never considered when John wondered about that night. He doesn't have to flail for too long because Mac isn't finished.

"You know, my aunt and uncle lived together for a couple of years before they were married. He wanted to, but she didn't. She told me they had some incredible arguments and once, when they were in the kitchen, she started throwing dishes. The way she described it, the air was full of china shrapnel. Finally, she reached into the cupboard for another plate, but he got there first. _He_ pulled out a stack of Tupperware and started tossing it around the kitchen, bouncing it off the walls, using the lids like Frisbees, and it ended up making her laugh. She told me that was when she decided to marry him." Mac smiles at the memory, and then his eyes suddenly widen and he stammers, "Not that I...I mean...."

John thinks about letting Mac dig himself in deeper, but decides to cut him some slack. "I got it, Mac." Finished with the sharing portion of the day, he suggests, "Do you want to watch a movie or something while the chili simmers?"

Mac is equally ready to move on based on his counteroffer. "I suppose I could be convinced to play that Madden NFL game of yours."

"Cool." John jumps to his feet and leads the way into the living room.

~.~.~.~.~

John thinks that the enclosed porch is the perfect place to watch heat lightning brighten the pre-dawn sky over the lake. The only thing that would make it better would be a warm bowl of chili, but he and Mac ate the last of it over a week ago. The chili had been the best John had ever had, even with Mac's insistence on ladling over spaghetti. John had encountered weird regional recipes before, and at least he'd known all the ingredients and there'd been no need to wonder about a strange taste or texture, so he'd eaten it with spaghetti…and liked it. Now, with summer coming on like gangbusters, John suspects there won't be anymore homemade chili for a while.

He hears a few thumps inside the house, but he doesn't move because he recognizes the sounds from later mornings. After five minutes or so, Mac walks outside, letting the screen door snap shut behind him as he flicks on a low wattage light with his elbow. Handing one of two mugs to John, Mac frowns for no discernible reason then drops into the wooden rocking chair next to John's glider. John sits up and rearranges himself so he can drink the fresh-brewed coffee without spilling, the glider making a metallic twang each time John shifts. Oddly enough, John likes the sound and pushes himself back and forth for hours as he reads or watches the lake, or at least until Mac rockets outside to complain that the noise is driving him mad.

After a few minutes of quiet coffee savoring, Mac scowls in John's direction and asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah." John sighs and lowers his half-empty mug to the floor before pulling his legs up so he can rest his arms on his knees. "Couldn't sleep."

"Hmm?" Mac twists in his chair to face John and, with his recent haircut and the lines of fatigue creasing his face, John thinks he might be seeing a hint of Dr. Rodney McKay, the bitterly frustrated man Mac often refers to, but has yet to introduce to John. Doubtless unaware of what he's revealing, Mac frowns again and pushes for a reason. "What's wrong?"

John shrugs and decides it's innocuous enough to share. "The two Godzillas were okay, but that last movie really creeped me out. The whole changing into a bug thing was freaky."

"I guess I can understand that." Mac nods and relaxes into his chair, letting it rock a little as he muses aloud, "If it had been me, if I were going to come out the other side changed…less than I was before…then I think I'd rather...." Mac breaks off before he finishes his thought and veers off on a tangent. "You what really gets to me? Tight spaces. The whole trapped underground or in an elevator scenario can really freak me out."

"Claustrophobic? That's tough." John tries a bit of teasing, hoping it will either lighten Mac's mood or tick him off enough that he'll forget being scared. "The odds of something like that happening in real life are probably a lot higher than the bug thing."

The teasing is marked a success when Mac huffs a laugh and agrees. "Definitely. I'll take improbable science fiction scenarios over plausible nightmares of being stuck someplace small and dark, thank you very much."

The talk of science fiction reminds John of something he decides to share. "I used to think about writing science fiction, all about traveling through space to other planets, seeing other skies."

"Used to?"

"I'm beginning to think I'm not cut out to be a writer after all. I mean, my teachers always liked what I wrote and I've been scribbling things down for years, but…." John wants to explain that he thinks years of editing everything before speaking as few words as possible, following parental rules and then military, has cost him his words. He wants Mac to understand but, once again, he's tongue-tied and then he isn't.

"You want to know why I'm here? In Willoughby? After I left the Air Force, I lived in my father's house and I worked at my father's company. Every day I'd get out of bed and look in the mirror and it was as if my father was standing there looking back at me saying 'I told you so' and I couldn't tell him that he was wrong. The worst part was…I didn't care. One day, I went to lunch with Nancy and she asked me if I'd ever been happy when I wasn't flying." John shakes his head and laughs, a short, bitter sound. "I couldn't say, which explains a lot about our marriage. She was good about it, though, just told me I should try to recall those times, if they'd ever existed, and then figure out what would make me happy now."

John shifts and stretches his legs back out, slouching down in the glider to rest his head on the back. "I went back to my father's house, to my old room where I'd stored everything, and got out my old journals to see if I'd written anything that might jog my memory. That's when I realized that the closest I'd come to being happy on the ground was writing the entries themselves. I remembered how much I'd enjoyed my Creative Writing class at Stanford and that I'd started the journaling back then. My favorite entries were when I was doing something different than usual or was in a new place, so I...I packed a few things and hopped the next bus going someplace else. Now I'm here and…."

Suddenly finished, feeling empty and exposed, John closes his eyes and waits for his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest. His eyes pop back open when the glider rocks and twangs under Mac's weight. Sitting only a few inches away, Mac leans forward, balancing his forearms on his thighs, looking out over the lake instead of at John, his voice quiet as the retreating night. "I can sort of understand being blocked. Not when it comes to writing or physics, but I used to play the…um…piano. I stopped taking lessons after my teacher told me I'd only ever be technically proficient, that I possessed no sense of the art. I didn't see the point in continuing if I could never be the best."

John had noticed the upright piano in the corner of the living room but, with the keyboard cover closed and the bench in front of it stacked high with papers, he'd never bothered to mention it. He's close to asking if Lily had played, when Mac continues and answers John's unspoken question. "I know my aunt was pissed at my parents for letting me quit the lessons, but she never pushed me while I was here, even though she'd bought the piano for me. At most, she'd say, 'Play me something pretty, Merry,' and I couldn't resist her anymore than anyone else could." Mac straightens and then relaxes back with a sigh, turning his head to blink lazily at John, barely managing a smile as he admits, "I know it's nothing like what you've lost; flying and…." His voice trails off and he gently pushes off with one foot to let the sound of the glider fill in the blanks.

The distant flashes continue to illuminate the clouds over the lake, the diffused light brighter at the edges. They sit there watching for a few minutes before Mac comments drowsily, "Neat lightning." Shifting until his socked feet are up on the glider, Mac props his back against the padded arm, his head drooping toward his inside shoulder as he relaxes even further. "A little weird without the thunder."

John yawns and twists sideways to mirror Mac, leaving one leg down to keep the glider moving a while longer, the other leaning against Mac's calves. John finally lets the glider slow to a halt until the only sounds left, as the sun wakes behind magenta-tinged clouds, are the soft lap of the water, chirring insects, and Mac's quiet breathing. The lightshow over, John lets his eyes drift closed with a belated murmur of agreement. "Yeah, it was pretty neat."

 


	7. Faded Photographs

John's in the kitchen making sandwiches for lunch when there's double thump across the yard followed by the sound of childish laughter and shouts. He leans forward to peer through the window over the sink and spots the hood and bumper of a vehicle parked in the neighboring driveway. He's more than a little curious about what's happening over there, since the house has been standing vacant since he'd moved in with Mac, and he resolves to mow the lawn later in order to check it out.

"Ms. Lily! Ms. Lily! We're back!" Startled, John drops the knife into the jar of mayonnaise, twisting around to see two small faces pressed against the screen door to look in at him. Apparently equally surprised to see him, the taller of the two blurts out, "Hey, who're you?"

"Uh, hi…kids." Quickly wiping his hands off on a towel, John opens the door and steps outside. The slim brunette emptying the rear of the late model SUV next door looks up to see him standing there, sets the suitcase she's holding down on the gravel, and walks across the yard towards John and the two girls who're most likely her daughters.

She smiles as she approaches, her eyes concealed behind fashionable sunglasses so John can only wonder if she's feeling uneasy about her daughters standing next to a strange man. He feels a little better when she takes them off and he can see her eyes only hold friendly interest as she introduces herself. "Hi there! I'm Hilary Stone and these are my two very rude daughters, Melissa and Heather." She places one perfectly manicured hand on the shoulder of the taller girl, who looks like a miniature version of her mother, and ruffles the shorter girl's blonde curls before offering her other hand to John.

John smiles and takes it for a moment, responding with his own introduction. "Hi. John Sheppard."

"I do hope these two haven't bothered you too much, it's just that they've been looking forward to seeing Lily." Hilary shakes her head and laughs at her energetic daughters, who've started some sort of running game around John and their mother. "I swear it was all they talked about on the drive out, at least since we passed Cincinnati."

Before John can get a word in edgewise, Melissa darts in to shout, "Yeah, Ms. Lily bakes us cookies!" and then giggles as she dodges away from her mother's tickling fingers.

Jumping in place and waving her hands to make sure everyone is paying attention, Heather adds her own two cents. "And tells the best stories!" Both feet back on the ground, she tries to peek around John and into the house before pouting up at him. "Where is she?"

"Uh, she's…." Feeling completely out of his depth, John looks up from the girls' faces into their mother's, knowing his must be revealing something as Hilary's smile begins to fade. "She…."

"John?" Mac's voice carries outside from the kitchen, mercifully rescuing John from his pitiful attempt at explaining Lily's absence. "Hey, what're you doing out here? I thought you were making…."

A puzzled look crosses Hilary's face, as Mac glances through the screen door and then steps outside to join them. Suddenly, her face clears and she smiles as she exclaims, "Mac? Is that you? It's Hilary, Hilary Raines from next door? Wow. Quite a change from the skinny kid with blond curls down to your shoulders. I mean, it's a good change; it's just that I barely recognized you. So, I take it you're visiting…?"

John almost grins at the sight of Mac standing there speechless in the wake of meeting someone who talks as much as he does, but then her voice trails off when Mac's expression freezes. Her smile droops for a moment, and then it returns, although it's a little less bright, as she looks down at her daughters to say, "Girls, I want you to go get your things out of the car and take them into the house."

"Awww, Mom!" Melissa and Heather chorus, accompanied by pouts and at least one foot stomp.

Hilary shakes her head with a frown and points toward the SUV. "Don't argue with me. I need to discuss some adult things right now, and that means without you two hanging around and getting into trouble. Now go on."

Dragging their feet all the way, the two girls start to cross the yard to their house and, when Hilary decides they're far enough away, she turns back to Mac. He shrugs and then crosses his arms as if to preempt any physical attempt to offer solace. "I'm afraid she's…gone. It happened in December, a car accident."

"Oh, Mac. I'm so sorry." John can see that Hilary has an idea what Mac's feeling by the compassion in her eyes and her sad smile. "We…we exchanged Christmas cards, she always sends hers right after Thanksgiving but, with everything that's been happening in my divorce, I never called her after I tried once in January. I had no idea she…." Ignoring Mac's body language barriers, she reaches out and pats his closest arm. "I'll explain it to the girls later. You know, she used to tell them stories about you all the time. She missed having you visit."

John sees Mac flinch and he nearly steps between him and Hilary, something in Mac's curt, "I know," triggering an instinct to protect him from the well-meaning platitudes reawakening the guilt that John doesn't like to see in Mac's eyes.

Instead of physically interposing himself, John falls back on a verbal diversion. "Are you here for the weekend or the summer? Need any help carrying things?"

Just as he'd hoped, Hilary returns her attention to John and smiles, tucking a dark curl behind an ear as she tilts her head and answers, "We're here for the summer, Mr. Sheppard, and thank you for the offer. I might just take you up on that."

"Okay, then let's go do that." Thinking that Mac owes him, since John most definitely saw this one coming, John starts to walk toward the SUV. After Hilary waves goodbye to Mac and catches up to John, he smiles and tells her, "Please call me John. Whenever I hear 'Mr. Sheppard,' I keep looking around for my dad."

~.~.~.~.~

Thankful that Mac had put his abandoned sandwich into the refrigerator instead of the trash, John carries it into the living room along with two beers and a bag of chips. Handing one of the beers and the chips to Mac, John drops onto the sofa and props his feet up on the coffee table. Halfway through his sandwich, John nudges Mac to drag his attention away from the journal that looks like it's bleeding red ink. "So you were a skinny kid with blonde curls?"

Mac chokes a little on his beer and glares at John. "Fifteen years ago. I'm honestly surprised that she even remembered I existed. Let's just say I was never one of the _popular_ summer kids." Crumpling up the empty chip bag, Mac hands it to John so he can attempt to make a basket using the trash bin next to the door into the kitchen. He makes the throw and then fakes a cheering crowd so that Mac will laugh, but he only gets a roll of the eyes and a mocking, "I was surprised you came back so soon. I'm pretty sure you're her type…tall, dark, and single."

John shrugs and finishes his beer before answering Mac's unspoken question. "She's not mine. Kids are cute enough. Then again, they usually are." Still curious, John jerks his chin at the bookcases next to the piano. "Bet you were, too. I should check out those albums, see if I'm right."

Mac scowls at John for a moment then shrugs. "Well, at least I know there won't be any of me lying on a bearskin rug with my ass showing." He gets up and walks over to the bookcase to pull out three of the photo albums, carries them back, and then drops them on the table, narrowly missing John's feet. "I keep meaning to pack these up and ship them to Jeannie. She's into all that genealogy and family history crap. I'm more interested in _now_ , or at least what's happened in my lifetime." He plops down next to John again and flips open the top album with a sigh. "And yes, I know that just proves once again that I'm a self-centered asshole."

Swiping his hand back through his hair, John winces and then mutters, "Guess that makes two of us." Dropping his feet to the floor, John leans forward and a little into Mac as he looks over the pages of photographs. "I've never been interested in whether my great-great-greats were on _The Mayflower_ or in keeping the Sheppard name bright, shiny, and worth lots of money." He smiles and taps the picture of a towheaded boy tucked into a cannonball off the end of a dock. "This is you? Looks like you can swim after all."

Mac huffs and flips the page. "I never said I couldn't swim, just that I wasn't going in the lake. See that?" He points to a water-spotted Polaroid of him holding a fishing rod and a string of small fish. "There's the proof that I used to catch bluegills off that dock, and I happen to know what the survivors and their bigger cousins are doing in that water everyday."

John glances sideways and snickers at Mac's 'ew disgusting' face then gestures toward another photo with a smiling woman waving at the camera. "That's your aunt?" Mac nods and confirms John's guess, the blue eyes and slightly crooked mouth obviously a family trait. "She was pretty."

"Mmmm, Jeannie looks a lot like her." Mac pulls out the next album and flips until he can point out a bright-eyed toddler who showed up later as a little girl with pigtails, missing teeth, and an impish grin. "Her hair never went dark like mine did, and now Madison's blonde too."

They turn over page after page of Mac and Jeannie running through sprinklers, swimming, sailing, riding bikes, and reading books. Both McKays appeared a little older with each page, Mac's hair growing along with rest of him, and then there are no more pictures of him, only Jeannie until they reach the last page. John's eyebrows rise as he whistles long and low. "Well, at least your butt's not naked in the small one. The other one…."

Although the slightly-battered Polaroid of a teenaged Mac wearing nothing but wings, a halo, and makeup only shows him from the waist up, it's next to a program for an art show at the University of Cincinnati. The example piece selected for the cover reveals the rest of Mac in all his glory, a counterfeit Cupid aiming his bow at a voluptuous Venus. Mac groans and drops his face into his palm, his voice low and embarrassed. "Where did she…? God, I can't believe she has that in here."

John resists the urge to tease and simply says, "Must be quite a story."

Dropping his hand and slumping back into the couch, Mac nods in agreement. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." With a sigh, he begins to tell it. "My boy...someone I thought was a friend managed to convince me to pose for a body paint and photography art project he was working on. He ended up with an A in his class and a ten-campus tour. _I_ ended up with a reputation I had to work very hard to bury."

Mac's face crinkles as if he's in pain and John almost tells him to forget telling him, but he's already continuing. "Let's just say that defending your doctorate can be _interesting_ when you know the people who can make or break you have seen your ass plastered across various and sundry bulletin boards around the campus advertising the show's opening."

Right then, John's more interested in what happened all those years ago than in the possibility that Mac might've just outed himself, so he asks, "Why didn't you tell him not to use your pictures?"

"Believe me, I tried." Mac's voice is flat and discouraged, but John resists reaching out, not wanting to derail the story. "The bastard considered it the perfect revenge for breaking his nose."

Mac's never left John with the impression that he's suppressing violent tendencies, so he has to ask to be sure. " _You_ broke his nose?"

Mac just rolls his eyes at John's disbelief. "I told you that you weren't the only one around here who's had a meltdown. I walked into his dorm room one day and…I ended up being very glad I'd always insisted on condoms. Unfortunately, I also learned just how important it is to read _everything_ when you sign something like say…a blanket waiver for any and all photographs."

Knowing it's not the right time to share some of his own misadventures while in school, John simply shakes his head in commiseration and says, "In other words, you got screwed."

"And I only enjoyed some of it when it happened." Mac leans forward to slip the more discreet image out of the album. "This one is a study, I recognize it. He made a lot of them and had them available for sale. My aunt must have picked it up at the show." Dropping the photo on the page, he extracts the flyer next to it. "The full-size piece…I can at least point to it as art, although it would be a lot less embarrassing if I were immortalized in a jungle scene or painted into the side of a barn. The worst part of all of it is when I wake up in a cold sweat sometimes after dreaming that someone found the other poses that he kept and published them, even though he's been dead for years. I can't name any Nobel laureates who were centerfolds, can you?"

"Not unless _Scientific American_ started including them when I wasn't looking." John takes the flyer from Mac and opens it. "Dead…a jungle scene...that's why this all looks so familiar. There was a retrospective at some benefit Nancy dragged me to in DC for...AIDS?"

Mac nods, with a sour curve to his lips. "Unfortunately, I suspect some or all of his other bed partners weren't as careful." Retrieving the flyer from John, he starts to absently fold and pleat it while he looks straight ahead at nothing. "There's one thing I don't understand. I know I was terrible when it came to writing her, but I'm almost positive that I told her at least some of the trouble the whole posing thing caused. Why would she keep these?"

"Because they're the last pictures of you that she had?"

Although John's answer was deliberately soft, Mac hears it anyway. His eyes redden and he swallows several times before choking out, "I...can't…I think I...." Still holding the now crumpled flyer, he gets up and walks toward the kitchen and then John hears the screen door slam.

Lost in thought, John doesn't move for a few minutes, his brain busily collating what he's just learned. Mac being gay isn't a problem for him, especially with John's own history, but he's a little worried about how Mac will act now that John knows. Deciding that he needs to give Mac some space, John rises from the sofa to clear off the coffee table. He closes the albums and returns them to the bookcase, but then he pulls the last one out back out and removes the photograph he'd left loose. Checking out the window, he spots Mac standing on the end of the dock looking out over the lake, and then he looks down at the picture in his hand. John's fairly certain Mac wouldn't want Jeannie to see it if she hasn’t already, so he takes it to his room and tucks it inside his journal, then he stretches out on his bed to read a chapter or two of _War and Peace_.

~.~.~.~.~

John checks his watch when he startles out of a doze, and it's been less than an hour since he came upstairs. He hears something downstairs, most likely whatever woke him, and he gets up to see what's happening. As he enters the living room, he sees Mac sitting at the piano, fingers ghosting across the keys. There's no melody that John can detect, just a few scales, some haphazard chords, a whisper of sound as Mac nods his head to a silent beat. John watches for a moment, and then he walks over to sit on the bench next to Mac. When Mac turns his head toward John with a tentative look in his eyes, John nudges him with a shoulder to make it clear he's okay with what's been shared, and then demands in his best Humphrey Bogart, "Play something for me, Mac."

Mac's grin is a little more crooked than usual, but he still teases back, "You sure you don't want something pretty?" When John just dips his head and raises his eyebrows mockingly, Mac huffs in amusement. "Fine. Let's see…." He thinks for a few moments, then he starts playing and John grins when he recognizes _Solitary Man_ after four or five measures, although it's slower and smoother than the version that matches the poster on his bedroom door. It makes sense considering Lily's collection of 45s, and Mac slants a smirk at John before informing him that, "Neil Diamond did it first…and better."

Although John likes what Mac's playing, he's not willing to leave his man in black behind. "No way. Prettier, maybe."

Mac chuckles and his playing trails off, and then he looks at his watch, nods, and gets up from the bench. He heads for the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, "Come on. We've still got a couple of hours of daylight left, plenty of time."

"To do what?" John's not objecting to whatever Mac's planning since Mac's obviously in a much better mood, but John's definitely curious, and then he grins at Mac's laughing reply.

"Pick strawberries, of course."

 


	8. Stop Action/Slow Motion

The second time Mac's helmet thunks into the back of his, John decides it's time to pull over. It isn't the first time that Mac's dozed off behind John on the motorcycle. The way Mac explains it, he's safely wedged between the hard case and John with no skin exposed to sun or air, no sound except the rush of wind, limited vision behind the dark-tinted visor, and it ends up being a type of sensory deprivation chamber minus the chamber. After a while, Mac stops looking at the scenery and starts drifting, running complex equations in his mind, solving the mysteries of the universe. The next thing Mac knows, John's patting him on the thigh to wake him back up because Mac's helmet is heavy and his head has tipped forward and _clunk_.

Whenever it happens, John finds it hard to decide whether to laugh, to feel proud at how much Mac trusts him, or to carry out his threat to use bungee cords to make sure Mac doesn't fall off. This time, after two tiring days spent exploring the Hocking Hills region, John suspects bungee cords might be the way to go, possibly for both of them.

John admits to himself that it's a good tired, though, from fresh air, sun, and miles of hiking without the need to carry a gun and the memory of why. Best of all, John enjoyed sharing the experience with someone else, even if that particular someone had a tendency to point out negatives and categorically refused to sleep in a tent. Even that hadn't been a deal breaker, since Mac had pre-booked a room with two comfortable beds and there'd been a very nice hot tub next to the indoor pool.

While it'd taken John a while to get used to having someone else in the room again, which hadn't happened since John left the Air Force, it hadn't seemed to bother Mac. In fact, the sound of Mac's even breathing had finally lulled John into a deeper sleep than he'd enjoyed for months. However, a good night's sleep doesn't mean John wouldn't appreciate the chance to stretch out for a few minutes before going on.

John pats Mac to make sure he's awake enough to help steady the bike and then he slows, aiming for a shady spot a few hundred yards ahead. Cutting off the shoulder to ride across the grass, John discovers the hard way that a swath of greener grass is concealing a shallow ditch, and then there's tipping and sliding and he's stuck half out of the ditch with the PC800 pinning his right leg.

John can't feel Mac on the seat behind him, but he only worries for a few seconds because they hadn't been going more than a couple miles per hour. When he _hears_ Mac yelling even through his helmet, sounding more pissed than injured, John looks over his shoulder and Mac's standing about six feet behind the motorcycle, not a mark on him that John can see. He's holding his helmet in his gloved hand while he shouts," I cannot fucking believe you just did that, Sheppard! You crashed! What the hell were you thinking?"

John tries to shift the motorcycle, but it's a bad angle so he's not surprised when he fails. He settles for pulling his own helmet off to ask, "Are you okay?"

"Yes! No thanks to you!" Mac drops his helmet to the grass and walks closer so he can stand over John and wave his hands dramatically. " _I_ saw what was going to happen and put my right foot down on the lip of the ditch so I could step off while you just kept sliding." He bends down to examine John's situation and then asks a little more calmly, "Are _you_ okay? I mean, you aren't acting like you're in pain or anything. Are you being a stoic soldier or something stupid like that?"

Mac has a weird look on his face, which might be worry or even dread, but John can't be certain because Mac's upside-down from John's current perspective. John carefully sets his helmet on the ground and calmly tells Mac, "I'm fine. I'm not hurt, I'm just stuck," because John is a lot more embarrassed than bruised.

"Of course you're stuck," Mac huffs. "You crashed!"

Beginning to get irritated, John rolls his eyes and points to the machine pinning him down. "Do you think I could get a little help here?"

"Oh!" Mac straightens up and looks around, but John prefers traveling on back roads and there's no one else in sight. He's patting his pockets when he turns back and John knows Mac's thinking about the cell phone stored in the trunk because it's out of charge. Concern crinkles the corners of Mac's eyes as he considers all the angles of the problem in a matter of seconds. "Help. Yes. I can do that."

"Good, I just need you to lift it up long enough to let me pull my leg out." John frowns up at Mac and warns, "Don't try to pick it up all the way by yourself because you might hurt your back at that angle. Okay?"

With a curt nod, Mac scrambles down into the ditch, which fortunately is dry, then takes his position by the left handlebar. Grabbing that in his left hand and the seat in his right, he braces himself, but then frowns. "This isn't going to work," he declares, yanking off his gloves to unzip and remove his jacket, tossing the items in the direction of his helmet. When Mac resumes his stance, John notices that Mac has a better range of motion without the jacket, and then Mac's biceps flex impressively and the pressure is off John's leg. He wriggles free in just a few seconds, and then Mac lowers the motorcycle slowly with a muffled grunt.

"Thanks, buddy." John sits up and flexes his leg cautiously, but he seems to have escaped injury except for a few tender spots that will likely end up bruises. Scrambling to his feet, he looks down at the motorcycle and shakes his head with a sigh. "Guess I better get this thing back up where it belongs."

Mac jumps in with, " _We_ will. If it's too heavy for me, it's the same for you." He stays in position and indicates the uphill section of the motorcycle and then ahead where the ditch gradually flattens to level with the rest of the field. "If you can push that up, I'll balance it and then we can walk it out. I'll have to look at that mirror, too."

Between the two of them, it's only a matter of a few minutes before they park the motorcycle on mostly level ground, using the two-by-four packed in the trunk to prevent the stand from sinking into the slightly soft ground. Nodding in satisfaction, Mac retrieves the small tool kit from the trunk while John pulls out a blanket and small cooler. Leaving Mac to repair the dangling side mirror, John spreads the blanket out in the shade of a large maple, dropping his helmet, gloves, and jacket on one corner and setting the cooler on another.

John walks back to get Mac's equipment, but Mac's already finished with the mirror and has everything in his arms. John smiles and points toward the blanket. "Just drop those next to mine and take a load off. We still have some juice left and those cookies we bought."

Mac follows John, his complaining renewed with the recovery and repairs complete. "You expect me to just plop down on that blanket and relax next to the idiot who crashed the bike I was riding on?"

" _I'm sorry_ , Mac. Now, will you just settle down here and give it a rest?" John drops down to the blanket, leaving plenty of room for Mac. He fights hard not to snap back, hoping Mac will let it go before John loses his temper. "Please?"

Mac huffs and drops his jacket on top of John's before going to his knees at the edge of the blanket and crawling forward. Collapsing slowly, Mac rolls to his back, then props himself up on one elbow so he can grab the juice box John is holding out to him. He wrestles with the tiny straw stuck to the side, but it defeats his slightly too large fingers, so he gives up and drops the box on the blanket with a sound of disgust. "Why they make these things so impossible…." Squinting up at the leaves overhead, he grumbles, "I still can't believe you crashed the bike...while I was on it."

"We didn't crash." Taking a calming breath, John retrieves the box and easily pries the straw loose, and then jams it into the box before handing it back to Mac. "We tipped over. Slowly. And I'm sorry that it happened."

Mac accepts the box, but not John's rebuttal. "We crashed, Sheppard. The mirror broke off."

"We didn't crash and the mirror went right back on, good as new," John points out, still attempting to be reasonable.

Mac takes a sip of juice before he continues to argue. "The motorcycle went from vertical to horizontal at speed. That's considered _crashing_."

"It happened in fucking slow motion, Mac," John snaps back, his patience at an end. "Jesus, you stepped off before the bike was halfway over. The only part of you that touched the ground was your boots."

Mac sits up and reaches for one of the cookies John offers, but that doesn't mean he's finished. "But you crashed after you said you wouldn't."

With a sigh, John closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose as he offers what he hopes is his last apology for the 'crash that really wasn't.' "I'm very, very, _very_ sorry that I crashed the bike, Mac. Trust me. I will never do it again."

Mac waves half a cookie at John. "Damn straight you won't, Mr. 'my childhood hero was Evel Knievel' or you'll find out I'm not just a genius at _repairing_ things."

Scowling at John for a few moments longer, Mac finally nods and starts to drink again. Suddenly, he chokes and starts chuckling, then roaring in laughter.

Although he has no idea what Mac thinks is so funny that he's snorted juice out of his nose, John can't help but join him, laughing in-between trying to ask, "What…what's…so…funny?"

It takes a while, but Mac finally manages to gasp out, " _Nick at Nite_ …Laugh-in reruns, guy…on a tricycle…would just…." Mac straightens up and then suddenly topples sideways without trying to break his fall, giggling all the way down. He rolls to his back and looks up at John, a crazy grin stretched across his face, his cheeks more than rosy from sun and laughter, his hair every which way because wearing helmets does that, and John has to grin back at him knowing he probably looks the same. Of course, that just encourages Mac and he points at John and snickers some more, then blurts out, "All you needed was a yellow slicker and hat!"

It takes John a few moments to understand what Mac's talking about, then he has to join in the merriment again at the ridiculous image of a grown man peddling onstage with a tricycle then stopping to tip over. As John flops back on the blanket next to Mac, his belly aching from laughter, he knows they're going to be okay. He also can't help wondering whether any of the local stores sell old-fashioned raincoats and hats.

In yellow, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mac being able to sleep on the back of the bike and the slow motion crash actually happened to Gary and me, and are still a source of amusement when we recall the 'good old days.' More details on the tricycle reference are [here](http://www.tvacres.com/bicycles_tricycle.htm).


	9. Fireworks

Standing in the shade of the old oak in the side yard, cooling off after mowing the lawn, John grins at the antics of Melissa and Heather as they dance impatiently in front of him. "C'mon, Mr. John! You need to go swimming with us!"

John disagrees with an exaggerated shake of his head. "Sorry. I can't. Too busy."

"But you're not doing anything!" they both protest.

"Sure I am. I'm busy…." Reaching into the baggy pockets of his cargo shorts, John pulls out three green tennis balls and begins to toss them in the air. "…juggling." The girls shriek with laughter and then try to catch the balls by jumping to catch them. John laughs and plays keep away by walking backwards in a wiggly circle, until Hilary walks across the yard to join them.

She shakes her head in disapproval at her daughters, although her smile and tone are fondly indulgent. "That's enough, you two. You both need to settle down. Why don't you go get yourselves a popsicle?" The girls cheer and take off running, not even pausing when Hilary calls out, "And eat them on the porch steps!" Turning back to John, she says apologetically, "Sorry about that. I'm afraid they miss their father."

"Nah, they're fine." John smiles and tucks the tennis balls away, and then rubs the back of his sweaty and gritty neck, thinking that the swim really hadn't been a bad idea. "They kind of remind me of my…my ex-wife's nieces."

Hilary smiles back, nodding. "Well, feel free to send them home when and if they get to be too much." She hesitates, and John gets the impression she's wondering how to bring up an awkward topic. He's about to ask an innocuous question of his own when she finally says, "I'm assuming that Mac isn't planning on a bonfire this year?"

"Bonfire?"

"Lily had one every Fourth. She used to start collecting broken pallets and crates in the beginning of June. They would be stacked five or six feet high when it was ready to light. People up and down the lake would stop by all day and past dark, you know, potluck style." She nods toward the firepit on the edge of the lake. "Anyway, Ellie Bronson's setting one up this year - they're in the log cabin five lots down - and she suggested that I ask if you two would like to join us."

Feeling as though he's making his way through a field seeded with social landmines, John puffs out a long breath and shrugs. "Haven't really thought about it. I'll have to ask Mac if he has any plans."

"Oh, of course. I hadn't considered that you might not even be here." Hilary's little head dip and laugh seems to signal some embarrassment, but it doesn't prevent her from asking, "I saw Mac out here working on your bike earlier, when you started mowing the lawn. Where are you two headed off to next?"

"I'm still trying to talk Mac into heading over to West Virginia and trying out some of the cool curves in the mountains." John smiles as he remembers their last trip. "Maybe I'll even convince him to try sleeping in the tent instead of a motel room."

Hilary's gushing response catches John off-guard. "Oh, I think it's great when a couple does things together, shares interests. Sometimes I think that if Mark and I had…." John's still processing her use of 'couple' as she tapers off with a little frown before brightening again to ask him, "So how long have you two been together?"

John isn't as dismayed by her assumption as he would have been a year ago. He'd known when he accepted Mac's offer that some people might see it as something more than a friendly gesture, an offer an Air Force officer couldn't have accepted for fear of the repercussions. Leaving that restriction behind had opened up possibilities that John is only just starting to consider, and he's almost willing to leave it like that, but decides Mac doesn't deserve to be blindsided. "Uh, we're just friends."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope you aren't…." John smiles and waves away her apology, so she quickly recovers her slipping smile and asks, "So how did you and Mac meet?" John can almost see the gossip wheels turning behind her eyes and barely suppresses a groan. "I'll bet there's a story behind that. He was never much for hanging out with the rest of us, always over at that old hat factory with that creepy guy."

Any goodwill generated by Hilary's easy - albeit inaccurate - acceptance of him and Mac together evaporates with her simple dismissal of Harry. John shakes his head and summons a strained smile, wanting the conversation to have been over ten minutes earlier. "Not really."

"Oh." Obviously recognizing she'd somehow trespassed again, Hilary's smile droops for a moment before perking back up. "Well, if you do decide to come by, just bring a dish to pass. Lily used to make the best hanky-pankies every year…anyway, whatever you'd like is fine." She glances over her shoulder to check on the girls, who are dutifully sitting as directed and dripping purple on the steps. "Oh dear. I should get going."

John nods and starts to turn toward the house. "Thanks for the invite."

Hilary turns and walks away, calling back, "Hope we'll see you both there!"

John doesn't answer, just heads for the house trying to figure out how and when he's going to break it to Mac that some people consider them a 'couple.'

~.~.~.~.~

After a much-needed shower, John wanders out to the back porch. Mac's already there, shirtless in the heat, contentedly reading the newspaper where the bugs and sun won't bother him. John notices that it's a little late for avoiding the sun because Mac's picked up a noticeable burn and freckles on the back of his neck and across the top of his shoulders from his earlier tinkering with the bike. After the last trip, he'd decided to add an adapter socket for the cell phone charger, as well as extra lights and 4-way flashers. John had agreed without any arguments because at least Mac wasn't refusing to get back on the bike after 'the crash that wasn't.'

Skipping a golden opportunity to tease Mac about forgetting his sunscreen, John goes back inside to grab the tube of anesthetic cream so he can put some on Mac's shoulders before he starts to complain. Thirsty, he also considers grabbing a couple of bottles of beer, but pours them both tall glasses of ice water instead, knowing the alcohol would only serve to dehydrate them even more.

Mac looks up when John sets one of the glasses on the table in front of him, blinking a few times before grabbing the water and taking a deep drink. He places the glass on the floor next to him - since they'd discovered the table tended to wobble and hadn't gotten around to fixing it yet - and then tilts his head at John to say, "Thanks, I needed that." Folding the sports section, he points to a schedule. "The Indians are playing at home this week. Want to catch a game if you're not working that night?"

John finishes his own water and sets the empty glass on the table, then he shivers when he absentmindedly uses his chilled hand to rub his neck. "Uh, about that. Yesterday was my last day, so that's not a problem."

"What?" Mac twists in his chair to frown up at John. "You never said a word to me about getting fired."

"I'm telling you now?" John shrugs, feeling a little sheepish. "It wasn't a big deal. Richie's nephew is home from college for the summer and wants to use the studio, plus he's got some high school kids he usually hires, so…." He flips the tube in the air and catches it with one hand, then keeps on doing it so he doesn't have to look at Mac, feeling a little guilty about not mentioning it the same day Richie had called John into his office to explain. "It's not as if I need the money, and I'm staying here…at least I am as long as you can put up with me. Right?"

Mac considers John for a few moments then slowly nods. "Actually, I think it's the other way around." He points to the flying tube and asks a little irritably, as if to prove his point, "So are you going to put that stuff on me, or am I going to have to contort myself into impossible positions and end up crippled?"

"I've got it. Turn around." John opens up the tube and squirts a liberal amount into his palm so that it will warm up a little before he starts spreading it over Mac's tender skin. Tossing the tube onto the table, John starts smoothing the cream gently with his fingertips and tries not to think about how long it's been since he's deliberately touched someone's skin, made a connection more intimate than shaking a hand or politely kissing a cheek. He's aware that he's kept people at a distance for most of his life; it had been one of Nancy's biggest complaints. That's when John realizes that Mac has always stood and sat close without making John uncomfortable, and he can't blame anyone for assuming he and Mac are together. The thought doesn't make John back away; he just smiles and lightens his touch a little when Mac hisses at a particularly tender spot.

"Feels a lot better." Mac hums a little, twisting a little under John's hands, and then asks, "So was that a 'Yes' for the game? I was thinking Harry could go with us. He used to take my aunt and me when I was a kid."

John leans forward to check the date on the schedule and then nods. "Sounds like a great way to celebrate Canada Day."

"That's what I was thinking." Mac tips his head back and grins up at John, and John gently pats his shoulders and backs away before he gives into a sudden impulse. Mac doesn't seem to notice, just straightens up and turns his head to watch as John plops down on the glider. "Hotdogs at Jacobs Field…and the mustard!"

John nods agreeably. "And beer. Sounds great." Ruffling a hand through his hair, he sighs and gives into the inevitable, even though he'd rather pretend it hadn't happened. "By the way, Hilary just stopped by and invited us to a bonfire on the Fourth, couple of houses down the road."

"Hunh, that's right, I forgot to tell you. Some blonde by the name of Sally Benson, or something like that, stopped me at the grocery store yesterday and said something about it." Mac shrugs and looks away from John, fidgets with the paper before saying, "It's not like I was ever one of their crowd, so I'd just as soon stay here, but if you want to…." He looks back at John and rotates his hand in the air, as if in dismissal. "She mostly seemed interested in meeting you, mentioned seeing you out running."

John briefly considers letting Mac know that at least some people might expect them to show up together, but decides he's not ready for that conversation. He realizes Mac still waiting for an answer, so he shakes his head. "Nah, why don't we just hang out here instead? Maybe invite Harry, pick up some fireworks."

"Sure, that's sounds good…although I'm not sure about Harry. I don't remember him ever coming to the bonfire, not sure why. I asked him once, but he just shook his head…." Mac drifts for a moment before frowning. "In hindsight, maybe he thought it would make it easier for my aunt."

Remembering what Hilary had said about 'the creepy guy,' John suspects Mac's right, but he has to ask, "What's the deal with that? Harry seems pretty harmless to me."

"I told you about the 'stupid kids and haunted factory,' right?" Mac asks. "From what I picked up from my aunt, when Harry came back from Vietnam, he was convinced he could get the place back up and running, despite the fact that no one really wore hats after the fifties. He found some of the old-timers that used to run the machines, lined up a few specialty buyers, even sold his family's house and land by the lake to finance the start-up. It failed after a few years, and all he was left with was the machines, the factory, and the land it's on." Mac sighs. "And the really bad whiskey. Not everyone is willing to look past that and see who Harry really is."

"Harry's cool. We'll ask him at the same time we arrange the ballgame." John pushes off with one bare foot to start the glider swinging, allows the motion and sound to work its calming magic as he thinks for a few minutes about a kind, gentle man who'd come back from war and didn't fit in. John didn't think he could claim a kind or gentle label, but he'd felt a similar disconnect from the world until he'd stepped off that bus. A sudden urge to lighten things up strikes, and John waits until Mac starts drinking his water to ask with a grin, "So Hilary mentioned something called…hanky-pankies? What exactly do I have to do to get some of that?"

 

  


 

"Had a dog once, absolutely hated this time of year." Harry laughs and pokes at the fire they'd lit in the pit, sending a shower of sparks skyward. "He'd hide under the bed for fireworks and thunderstorms; couldn't get him to come out for anything until it was quiet again."

John reaches into the cooler between them, pulls out two of the Great Lakes lagers they'd picked up in Cleveland after the game, and offers one to Harry, who raises his half-full bottle of porter. John returns it to the cooler and opens his before saying, "I like thunderstorms. Well, I like the crazy wind before they hit."

"Why am I not surprised?" Mac huffs and drops into the lawn chair next to John's, grabbing a handful of tortilla chips from the bowl he just brought out from the house. A few of them go flying into the fire when Mac waves the handful in John's direction. "I mean, most of the time you look as if you have your own private tornado going on two inches above your head."

"Hey, no insulting the hair!" Harry chuckles as John wrestles the bowl away in laughing retaliation, almost spilling his beer in the process. His snack confiscated, Mac snaps his fingers and points to the cooler. John just hands Mac his half-empty bottle, and grabs a new one, grinning at Mac's sputtering complaints.

"See if I ever make you hanky-pankies again, you, you, ungrateful bastard!" Dropping the chips back into the bowl now sitting in John's lap, Mac uses the hem of his new Indians t-shirt to wipe off the lip of the bottle, and then finishes the beer in three big gulps, followed by an enthusiastic burp.

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head in mock disgust. "And that is why we can't take you anywhere nice, Mac." He settles back in his chair with a chuckle and watches the fire, pleasantly full of picnic food and content with the company. There's a thudding beat in the distance and, if John wanted to make the effort and lean a bit, he could just make out dark figures passing back and forth in front of the Bronson's bonfire. It isn't the only party visible along the slight curve of the lake. There are cars parked on the grass in front of most of the places along the road, courtesy of all the friends and families who'd arrived from Cleveland and beyond for the holiday. John decides he likes how different it is from the Sheppard Industries' business picnics or the rowdy celebrations on base and that, as clichéd as it might sound, he finally feels like he's home.

The night's clear and cool enough that the heat from the fire is pleasant. For a moment, John regrets Mac's refusal to buy fireworks, but then he hears a pop and a screaming whistle a few houses away and the night is a little brighter until the last few sparks are gone. Mac slides down in his chair, tips his head back and says, "You know what's funny? I'm an astrophysicist, and I haven't looked through a telescope in years. I live in Nevada, in the desert, and the stars at night out there are incredibly clear. There were all these numbers and theories and proofs I worked with everyday and I couldn't seem to find the time or a good reason to stop and look up and there's no guarantee that they'll always be there."

Mac waves his hand at the sky and nearly whacks John in the shoulder. "But that's just sentimental bullshit because, even if a star happens to be destroyed in our lifetime, odds are we'll never see the light go out because it's so many light-years away. Unless, of course, it's ours, and we won't be around to care."

Harry shakes his head and pokes the fire again before asking, "Why do you need a reason?"

John grabs Mac's hand on the next wave by and squeezes it before settling it on the arm of Mac's chair with a pat. "Yeah, how about looking up just because they're pretty?"

"I guess that works for some people, but…." Mac sighs and then says, "Tell us one of your stories, John; the one you wrote about your first flying lesson."

Surprised, John blurts out, "How the hell do you know about that?"

Mac abruptly sits up straight in his chair, turning so that John can see his worried frown in the firelight. "I…uh, I got a little bored in Vancouver with Jeannie, so I had someone track down that magazine you told me you were published in and had them scan it and email it to me.

Harry laughs at that. "Sounds like you were more than a little bored, Mac."

Mac shrugs. "I was…curious. It was a mystery to be solved, one that didn't require a lab."

John thinks for a moment and realizes he's surprisingly okay with that. However, when he tries to remember the story, it's vague in his memory, so he offers something else instead, one that better suits the background noise and fireworks. "Well, since you've already read that one, how about the time I was out with a couple of guys I was stationed with, and one of the most ruthless warlords in Afghanistan walked in and sat down at our table…."

  



	10. Hot Under The Collar

During the many years John's scribbled in his journals, he's rarely ripped out entire pages, but three have been torn out, crumpled, and thrown across the porch in the two hours since breakfast. Taking advantage of the slightly cooler dawn air, he'd grabbed a muffin and his coffee cup before settling sideways on the porch swing, his notebook propped against his drawn-up knees and his favorite pen gripped tight. A pre-dawn dream of Holland still bitter in the back of his throat, John had been determined to ignore Mac's usual morning perambulations with grumbling soundtrack and finish something for a change, to rediscover that place inside where the words used to live.

Despite that determination, he hasn't managed to write anything he could consider even semi-coherent, instead covering the lined sheets with so many cross-outs and addenda that John can no longer remember what he'd set out to say. Worse, his internal editor keeps insisting that too many others have already told the stories he wants to write and better. He finally buries the frustrating mess under the abandoned pages of Mac's newspaper, jumps up from the swing with a whinging jangle, and escapes outside to the rising heat.

Wandering around the yard picking up the dead branches the latest windstorm had shaken loose helps John burn off some of his aggravation, and he briefly considers mowing the lawn next, but a random glance upward changes his mind. A few minutes later, he's enjoying a different perspective, a little happier with his worldview until an irritated, "What the hell are you doing up there?" interrupts.

With a shrug, John tosses the dead branch he just snapped off in the general direction of the growing pile. "Thought that'd be pretty obvious, genius." Shifting to the smooth-barked branch on the other side of the tree, John reaches up to tug on a thicker version of the one he just removed without much success. He frowns down at Mac's ruddy upturned face and asks, "Hey, we got a saw I can use up here?"

Mac stomps away shaking his head and muttering something about idiots, broken bones, and the need for calling 911. John just grins and goes back to his yanking and twisting, enjoying his treetop battle. Finally abandoning the leafless branch as impossible to break off manually, John climbs a little higher, which affords him a glimpse into the room upstairs where Mac has his highly-classified-never-come-in-here-or-I'll-have-to-kill-you research set up. Mac's standing at the window and John can just make out Mac's face flushing at being caught watching.

With a scowl, Mac lowers the blinds to hide behind, although he leaves the window open because of the heat. The old-fashioned box fans can only do so much circulating the air from their strategic positions at the top of the stairs and just outside the kitchen door, and Mac's been muttering for days about the central air conditioning his aunt had insisted was ridiculous for the two months a year. John can see Mac's point because although John had been stationed in hotter places - with temperatures well over the current mid-nineties - they'd rarely been as humid as it's been with the usual breeze off the lake gone missing the last few days. The new rotating fan Mac currently has focused on his computers just isn't enough combat the sticky heat.

Half an hour later, finished except for a few thicker branches that need more than leverage to break off, feeling uncomfortably sweaty and gritty from bits of bark and squashed bugs, John retreats inside for a cool drink. He's leaning against the counter gulping down ice water when Mac clomps down the stairs to pull a can of cola from the refrigerator without a word. Pretending he's not inspecting John for damage, although he doesn't fool John in the least, Mac finally huffs, "I hope you're done playing Tarzan."

"There are a few more branches in that red maple that should come down," John pauses and looks down at his palms, regretting some of the bloodier scrapes, "but I need a saw for that and a ladder for the oak, too."

John hears the can crumple right before Mac snipes back, "It's a Crimson Queen Norway maple and I'll call a goddamn tree service for that because you're not climbing up any more trees while carrying sharp implements!"

Recognizing concern masked as bad temper, John tries - and fails - to defuse the situation with a smile. "I used to do a lot more dangerous things for a living, buddy. Besides, I'm not talking about juggling a chainsaw in mid-air. An ordinary hacksaw should take care of them just fine."

"Fine. Don't come running to me when you break your neck or cut off something vital." Tossing the lopsided empty can in the sink, Mac stomps back upstairs in an even fouler mood. Unwilling to give in on such a simple chore, John trudges up to the bathroom for a quick shower before collecting his motorcycle gear for a quick trip to the local hardware store. He changes his mind at the last minute and grabs the car keys instead, remembering something he'd noticed the last time he'd wandered through the aisles of home and garden tools - an impulsive bit of silliness that wouldn't fit in the bike's trunk.

~.~.~.~.~

It doesn't take long before John's back with the hacksaw and a surprise. Deciding it was too hot and better to wait until the next morning to tackle the trees again, John sets up his joke under the tree he'd been working in, hoping Mac won't come outside too soon. He can hear Mac's raised voice through the open window, even over the shrieks of the next-door girls, who are running around in the grass between the houses. They're playing some sort of noisy game that involves stiff-legged chases and waving something in the air at each other. John thinks it might be something like zombie Barbies but isn't going to ask because they'd probably ask him to play with them and he probably would which, with his luck, would end up being the subject of amused gossip the next time he stops by the Sunrise.

John ends up sending the girls home after the volume of noise from the window increases, accompanied by a number of words their young ears didn't need to hear. When John walks inside, he hears Mac pacing back and forth upstairs inside the room filled with multiple whiteboards and a desktop computer, as well as with the laptop that seems to be Mac's constant companion. Even through the closed door, John has no difficulty making out, "…and _I_ told you that I don't give a rat's ass what Felger said about her proposal! He's certainly proved his brilliance in the past, oh wait, he hasn't! Just because Hersfield decided he's the perfect ass-kissing sycophant Carter needs to prop up her…. Hello? Hello? Jesus Fucking Christ! Why the hell can't someone make a fucking phone battery that will last more than two hours?"

There is a splintering crash inside the room and John swings the door open to see the cordless receiver in pieces against the wall. When Mac turns away from his laptop at John's choked-off laugh, his expression looks torn between sheepish and belligerent. Mac's so red-faced and sweaty that John thinks he might need to invest in a window air-conditioning unit for the room to avoid Mac collapsing from heat prostration if the weather doesn't break soon. John quietly walks over to the screened window and closes it, then he chooses a strategic retreat, waiting until he's back in the hallway before suggesting, "Considering what you've told me about working on classified projects, you might want to think about who might be listening before you call back."

"And you need to stay the fuck out of here." Although the angry reminder that John's trespassing is no surprise, Mac's immediate shutdown of his whirring equipment is. Emerging from his overheated den, Mac snaps, "Those morons have already stolen enough of my time and expertise for today, maybe even for weeks. I swear I lose valuable brain cells every time I'm forced to deal with idiots like that." After locking the door behind him, Mac shoves past John in the narrow hallway and heads down the stairs. There's an extra-bitter twist to Mac's mouth as he glances back long enough to announce, "I need to get the hell out of there and clear my head." Without another word, Mac snags the car keys off the rack and is pulling out of the driveway in less than a minute, a man on an undetermined mission.

Left alone in a shockingly quiet house, John thinks about swimming then considers trying to write again, but neither activity is appealing. After picking up and dropping the game controller several times, he mutters, "Fuck it," and grabs his helmet and keys. He's breaking the rule about gear, isn't wearing his jacket or heavy jeans or boots, but the air is too heavy and hard to breathe like it'd sometimes been in Afghanistan. Ruthlessly shoving that sense memory back in the box, John climbs on his motorcycle as-is; a hot, sweaty, pissed-off mess who needs to be doing something somewhere else.

At the end of the driveway, he has to choose which way to go and, for a brief moment, he considers visiting Harry. The appeal of the old guy's stories and gentle humor, however, isn't enough to offset the oppressively dusty heat of the old factory, a dark warren baking under the hazy sky. Recalling some carpenter ants he'd seen earlier, a cluster struggling in a patch of tree sap, John suddenly envisions Harry as an aged beetle trapped in golden resin, still able to tear free with an effort but instead choosing to rest suspended in amber history.

The open road proves more inviting, and John turns left instead of right. Sighing in relief at the breeze of his passage, he spares a quick thought on how pissed Mac would be if he saw how John isn't dressed, and then John stops thinking and just rides with no specific destination in mind.

~.~.~.~.~

Pausing on a two-lane road traversing an Ohio ridge, overlooking verdant fields punctuated by trees, John feels closer to the sky with no walls between, but it's not good enough. A jet rumbles by overhead and he aches to be higher still, but his hands clench on handlebars instead of a yoke because he bound himself to the earth by his own choice. The mountains of West Virginia beckon in the distance, promising cool green heights to roam, and he chooses once again.

A hour or so later, he's traded the fields for cool, dappled-green corridors slanting along the sides of tree-covered mountains - nothing like the stark slopes he'd flown over in Afghanistan. He discovers that although the PC800 is a nice enough bike for touring with Mac, nice isn't what John needs right then. He misses the speed and pickup of his old Ninja on the mountain curves, the snarling echo of its engine that would suit the twists and turns better than a gentle purr. Pulling into an overlook, John almost parks the bike to jog a short trail, but the next mountain calls and the next and John answers every time as the sun sinks deeper in the sky.

~.~.~.~.~

It turns out John might have been wrong about not having a destination the second time he stops for gas. He won't admit to being lost, but while he's paying for four gallons - he'd been riding on fumes - he asks the kid behind the register the name of the town. Of course, then he has to ask what state Winchester's in and that's when John realizes he's crossed the Virginia border, the sun's just gone down over the mountains behind him, and he needs to figure out where to head next.

John's a good six or so hours away from Willoughby if he sticks to the main roads, but his family lives less than a third of that distance in the opposite direction. All John has to do is keep going and show up at Nancy's or his brother's door and they'd probably invite John in to stay the night or longer. Of course, then they'd probably ask John why he left the way he did and where he's been, and thinking about how he'd answer those questions helps John decide to turn the motorcycle around.

Two hours later, he's regretting leaving before lunch and skipping dinner. He's also not carrying enough cash for a motel and he'd cut up the company credit card and never got one of his own and he's going to fix that as soon as he gets back because he's getting chilled minus a jacket with the sun gone down in the mountains. He pulls over in an unlit layby next to an open field, pops the trunk, and pulls out Mac's emergency kit. After he drinks half a bottle of warm water and eats a candy bar that's melted at least once and is a weird shape, he shakes out a familiar-looking silver blanket that confirms John's suspicion that Mac has a habit of shopping at Army/Navy surplus stores, if not a base commissary.

Knowing he needs to rest before tackling the rest of the drive, John lays down in the moonlight thinking he's had worse than soft grass to rest on. Although he only plans on sleeping for an hour at most, the damp night air wakes him up after two have gone by and he shivers a little after he uncurls inside the crinkling Mylar. He scrubs his arms wishing Mac had included a jacket or sweatshirt in his emergency pack then finds the nearest tree to piss behind. After he drinks the last of the water, he gets back on the bike, hoping he can make it back on the little cash he has left because it'll be embarrassing if he has to walk the rest of the way pushing the bike.

It's after two when he pulls over for his last tank of gas, glad he could find a station open so late. Realizing he should have done it hours earlier, he tries to call Mac at a pay phone - no cell phone because Mac isn't with him - but there's no answer, just a busy signal. John wonders if Mac has started called hospitals and the police but then shakes his head because it's just as likely Mac's back on the line with whoever had him frothing at the mouth earlier. It wouldn't be the first time Mac spent all night on the phone talking to his classified contacts.

Resigned to at least another three long cold hours, John climbs back on the bike and rides dark roads.

~.~.~.~.~

Dawn is rising pink in the east when John walks into the house, yawning and shivering as his chilled body starts to warm out of the wind. He chugs a glass of milk and heads for the stairs, but changes direction when he hears a soft twang and realizes Mac is sitting on the porch swing. Leaning against the doorjamb, he watches Mac rock for a minute or two before he says softly, "Hey, Mac."

Mac's voice is a little raspy and just as soft. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back. I mean, your things are still here...."

John remembers some of the more bitter discussions with Nancy before they called it quits and expects Mac to finish with something like, 'It's not like you haven't done that before,' but it never happens. Mac doesn't ask any questions, although he does stop rocking.

Instead of feeling resentful, John ends up trying to explain - something he'd rarely offered Nancy. "I didn't mean to be gone so long. I tried calling once but the line was busy, then I used the last of my cash on gas…" John winces and rubs his neck as he breaks down and admits, "…and then I got lost."

"I was on the phone with Jeannie." There's just enough light for John to see Mac's shrug. "It was better keeping it busy than not getting a call because you'd had enough of me."

John trades leaning for a seat on the other end of the swing, dropping his head back with a tired chuckle. "Hell, Nancy and I did the passive-aggressive thing for more than a year before we called it quits. We're just getting started."

Mac doesn't say a word, and John thinks he might have pushed the idea that they're more than friends a little too far, so he tries again. "I mean I'm not planning on leaving anytime soon, buddy. I kind of like it here."

"Good," Mac finally says with a little nod. "That's…good." The two of them sit quietly, watching the morning arrive with banners of lavender and rose, until Mac turns to John with a puzzled look on his face.

"Why are there pink plastic flamingos down by the lake?"

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is not modern day, so I compulsively fact-checked on names and businesses, like the name for Cleveland's baseball stadium, whether Great Lakes was brewing in 2002, what games they could play on Playstation, what movies they could watch, and even whether John would use the word, 'diss'. I did, however, accidentally insert at least one anachronism that I decided to let stay in - Sudoku did not appear in American newspapers before 2004.
> 
> The timeline and John/Rodney's ages are based on the first showing of SG-1's '48 Hours' and 'Redemption', and guesstimating when John's black mark occurred, as well as the actors' ages in their biographies.
> 
> '48 Hours' was shown on 12/1/2001 so the story takes place in 2002. I chose to push the date out for 'Redemption' so that they could spend almost all of the summer together.
> 
> Mac 4/18/68 (33).
> 
> John 1/1/67 (34) - Black mark the year before, so barely made his 12 years in the Air Force if he joined at 21, assuming ROTC and early graduation.
> 
> Harry would have been about 19 in 1965 (approximately 57 in story, but looked 10 years older).
> 
> Although the town of Willoughby, Ohio actually does exist on shores of Lake Erie, I took great liberties with the local geography, as well as transportation options/schedules/routes.


End file.
